


Kindness such as this

by just_a_wavefunction



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deep Conversations around Campfires, Developing Relationship, Dragon Road Trips, Episode: s05e06 The Dark Tower, F/F, Friendship, I tried to make everyone appropriately badass, Magic Revealed, Prophecy What Prophecy, Violets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 13:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14082477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_wavefunction/pseuds/just_a_wavefunction
Summary: For better or for worse, Gwen has never been known to give up on anyone easily.So, when she's imprisoned in a dark tower full of mandrake roots and starts to suspect that Morgana might not be entirely lost to her, that there might still be a chance to get her back – well, what else would she do but take it?





	1. FROM THE DARK TOWER TO EALDOR

**Author's Note:**

> I'm like, the definition of being late to the party
> 
> I started this about a year ago, then left it alone for a (really, really) long time, and only recently picked it up and finished writing most of it. I tried to even out the resulting stylistic inconsistencies, but there might still be some left, so sorry in advance for those! I'm not quite a hundred percent happy with it, but I think I'm at that point where it's not going to get any better.
> 
> Also prophecies are made by men who can't remember that women have agency and therefore they don't apply!! how convenient
> 
> anyway: this is me, trying to fix everything

 

 

 

The screams, Gwen realises, sound familiar.

She can't quite put her finger on it. The twilight of her room in the dark tower doesn't make concentrating particularly easy; instead of being cool, the stones on the floor are sickeningly warm, and the air is stale with the acrid smell of the roots hanging down from the low ceiling. Several times already she has managed to block out the sound of her brother's cruel laughter, but it keeps coming back to haunt her, and other knights have joined him, as well. Lancelot is the easiest to ignore; at least she can be certain he isn't real.

She is just trying to calm herself down from the image of Merlin's wide eyes and twisted face, silently chanting _you're fake, you're fake, you're fake_ , when the thought hits her – these are not just anyone's screams, but not hers either. She's heard them before.

Of course, this is when the door opens.

 

 

 

Morgana looks terrible.

Gwen is surprised she can even make such an observation – shouldn't she have gone mad already? Or maybe she has and simply can't tell – but in comparison to her captor, she must seem the epitome of health even in her weakened state. Morgana's cheeks are hollow, her eyes far too bright, the pupils but two black pinpoints even in the dim light of the tower, and her hair falls in uneven tangles over her shoulders. Gwen is certain her collarbones have never looked this sharp, either.

“Food always makes me feel better,” Morgana is saying, idly rolling a small red berry between her fingers. “Would you prefer some chicken?”

Gwen presses her lips together. She wishes she could tell what Morgana's scheme is – the grand idea behind keeping her here. It's clear her presence is supposed to bait Arthur into searching for her. But then, what are the hallucinations for? Is it just the thrill of torturing her some more?

At her lack of response, Morgana's eyes soften into something akin to concern, but Gwen isn't fooled. “You must eat,” she insists. “Fading away...”

There are few things Gwen hates with all her heart, and hypocrisy is one of them. She lifts her chin in defiance.

“I don't know what cruel trick you're playing,” she declares, “but I will not be broken by you.”

Morgana actually flinches back. Camelot has lost a great actress in her, Gwen thinks bitterly.

“I thought this would be nice!” the witch exclaims with convincing indignation. “I know how lonely you must be, all by yourself in that room.” She pauses, growing soft again; it only helps to make Gwen angrier. “At least you're not shackled. And there's daylight. You can move, you can see.”

“You expect me to be _grateful_?”

Her eyes snap away from the berry in her hand.

“I, too, have suffered, Gwen,” she hisses. “I spent two years living in darkness. Spent two years chained to a wall in the bottom of a pit.”

Even ignoring the casual use of her shortened name as if they were still friends (as if they _ever_ were), Gwen can't help frowning. It has to be a lie. With her magical powers, surely nobody would be able to imprison Morgana? Much less for two years.

Understanding smooths over the witch's face at her puzzled expression. “You did not know.”

Gwen shakes her head, still wary. Why would she know? It's clearly a made-up story. And even if it isn't –

That's when the pieces start coming together.

“I would have sold my soul for someone to show me kindness such as this,” Morgana continues, oblivious to Gwen's realisation. “If you want me to take you back up there …”

She bites through the berry in her hand. Gwen swallows down her fear.

“Who did this to you?”

Her face twists into a half-smile. “Oh, do I have the queen's pity now?” She chews thoughtfully. “What does it matter? It's what anyone would do to a wicked witch.”

Gwen can feel the frown coming back to her face. “No,” she says. “It's not.”

“Quit lying to me, would you?” Morgana sneers, like she's one to talk.

“I wouldn't – I'd never do that.”

“Of course you wouldn't. You'd rather have me executed.”

Gwen wants to protest, but she knows Camelot's law better than anyone, and even though it's been a long time since anyone has actually been executed for sorcery, Morgana's committed enough acts of treason to warrant the sentence and she knows it. Still – that does not mean it's something Gwen wants. Or even thinks she deserves.

The witch completely ignores Gwen's struggle to say anything and just continues to talk. “Anyway, I wasn't all alone.”

The pause is for dramatic effect, Gwen _knows_ it is, but of course she falls for it. “What do you mean?”

Morgana's hollow smirk is back full-force.

“I had a dragon.”

 

 

 

Gwen is curled up on the floor when the door opens again. It's getting harder to block out the hallucinations now, but if what she's pieced together about her captor is right, there might still be a chance, and she clings onto it desperately.

“I thought you might like to dine with me,” Morgana says. Gwen can almost hear her wide, tender smile; it's nauseating. She scrambles to her feet in a hurry. Morgana extends a hand towards her.

“Come. You must eat or you'll fade away.”

Squaring her shoulders, Gwen ignores the hand and instead tries her hardest to look the queen she knows she is.

“The screams,” she says, and is proud that her voice barely wavers.

“What about them?”

“They're yours.”

It's like a wave rippling through the room, then. Morgana's hand falls back to her side; her whole body recoils while her eyes grow wide and diamond-hard. It gives Gwen the strength to push on.

“I've heard you wake from nightmares, remember? I've held you. You sounded just like that.”

“Let's – let's have dinner,” Morgana repeats hoarsely. “I've a warm fire going for you. Anything you want, you can have. I'll give it to you.”

Gwen steps forward, no longer able to tell whether her boldness comes from bravery or madness. She lays a hand on Morgana's arm.

“I'd like to meet your dragon.”

Morgana wrenches away from her, looking horrified. She turns on her heels and flees the room.

The door is still open.

Gwen supposes that's as much of an invitation as she'll get.

She follows Morgana up the stairs; only after several flights does it occur to her that she could simply run away now without anyone noticing. The thought is quickly discarded; she wouldn't make it very far, and she does want to see the dragon – not just out of curiosity.

Time and again Gwen has been told that she always sees the good in people, and while it may have proved to be a good trait in many situations, it also means that she had a difficult time accepting the transformation and utter betrayal of her former friend. The possibility that maybe Morgana hasn't lost her ability to love, that there might still be someone to save underneath all of her power and cunning – it's almost too much to hope for. It certainly is foolish to think Gwen of all people might be able to help.

Then again, she's always been a bit of a fool at heart.

After what feels like far too many steps for her worn-out legs, she ends up in front of a door apparently leading to some sort of balcony. The door is ajar; that's where Morgana must have gone. Gwen leans against it with all of her weight to push it open.

There, in the middle of a large, open platform, is the dragon.

Gwen's first thought is that it looks a lot like Morgana. Its scales are porcelain pale, its body all angles, its eyes look haunted, and yet it carries itself with a wild, graceful beauty. She isn't sure how the witch would like the comparison.

Morgana herself is standing by the dragon's side, a hand resting on its long neck. She has her composure back, even though she still seems uncomfortable. For a second Gwen is afraid she has overstepped a boundary by asking for this. Then she remembers who of them captured, bound and tortured the other in the first place, and any discomfort is gone.

“She doesn't like people,” Morgana says with a sneer. “Might bite your head off.”

It's almost enough to make Gwen smile. The roots must have detached her from reality a bit, because she doesn't feel scared at all. “I'll take my chances.”

She steps fully out onto the balcony, until she's just a few feet away from the dragon.

And then she waits.

The dragon, whose eyes were narrowed and wary at first, is now looking at Gwen with obvious interest. She tilts her head to the side, and her lips peel back to show a row of uneven teeth. They stare at each other for a while; Gwen takes in more of the crooked shoulders, the sore nostrils, the wide innocent eyes, and realises that she might never have seen anything quite so sad.

Some of it must show on her face because the dragon suddenly makes a swift move forward and presses her snout into the side of Gwen's neck. A startled laugh escapes her – that's certainly not what she expected. She brings up her hand to carefully pet the dragon's head and glances over to Morgana, a bit helpless.

The witch looks furious.

“You should go,” she says in a tight voice.

Now Gwen is really at a loss. “But the dragon – ”

“Her name is _Aithusa_ , and she is mine!” Morgana explodes, striding forward and pushing her away from the dragon. “Already you have taken everything from me, and now you'll take her as well!”

“I don't want to – ” Gwen tries again, but the raw desperation on Morgana's face stops her.

“It was a mistake, bringing you here.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Now leave, before I change my mind. Leave this tower and don't come back.”

“But – what about Arthur – ”

“Arthur can rot on his throne for all I care! Just – please. Leave.”

Her voice breaks a little bit on the last word. Aithusa gently nudges her arm and turns to look at Gwen, and she has no idea how she can even know this, but there is only one plea shining out of the dragon's eyes:

Stay.

“I'm not leaving,” Gwen says. “I'm not leaving you.”

 

 

 

It's not Arthur who barges through the door first, it's her brother. Gwen doesn't even try to contain the wide smile spreading across her face.

“Elyan!” she calls. “Are you alright?”

Elyan looks positively baffled. “You're asking _me_? I'm not the one who went and got himself kidnapped!”

“I'm fine,” she reassures him, but he's already eyeing the sword that's suspended in mid-air in the middle of the room.

“What's that?”

“A blade, enchanted by Morgana. It's supposed to keep intruders away.” She pauses. “It fights to kill.”

“Then let's have it try,” Elyan declares, drawing his sword like the reckless, loving idiot that he is. Gwen has to stop him, and quickly.

“Elyan. Put that sword back right now,” she says, channeling the voice their mother used to use on them in her childhood. It still works nowadays.

“We need to get you out of here!” Elyan exclaims, even though he hasn't made a move. “Do you see any other way? Because I don't!”

“Put the sword away,” she repeats. “I'm not coming back with you.”

For a few seconds, her brother is shocked into speechlessness. Just when he opens his mouth again to say something, the door bursts open a second time, revealing Arthur, flanked by his knights, and, unsurprisingly, Merlin.

“Guinevere,” Arthur breathes, and oh, how she's missed that voice that sounds so different from the one in her nightmares. Still, she's determined not to give in.

“Arthur, please, you have to listen to me. I believe there's a way to save Morgana.”

“Save Morgana – ” Arthur repeats, clearly overwhelmed. “She captured you!”

“Yes, and she hurt me, and I have not forgiven her for that nor am I forgetting it. But,” she adds quickly at the outrage on Arthur's face, “not all hope is lost for her. Please, I have to try – ”

“You don't owe her anything!” Elyan interrupts. “Just come back home with us!”

“I can't!” she exclaims, growing frustrated. “And I won't.”

“You know how dangerous she is,” Arthur insists. “You can't possibly trust her!”

“Of course I don't! But – if I leave now – it might be too late. She might be lost for good then. Do you want that?”

“Then – let one of us stay with you – ”

“It would be no use! She hates all of you!”

“This – this is madness – ”

“Arthur.” Merlin's been suspiciously silent this whole time; now that he cuts in, Gwen turns to look at him. He's staring back at her, with a determination that mirrors her own, and she has never loved him more than at this very moment. “If Gwen says she has unfinished business here, then we need to respect that. Trust your queen's judgment, will you?”

Arthur snaps his mouth shut and breathes deeply a few times. His face softens all of a sudden.

“Are you absolutely certain, Guinevere?” he asks.

She nods. “Yes.”

“I only wish for you to be safe.”

“I know. But I can handle it. I have up until here,” she adds with half a smile that Arthur returns.

“Then if staying is what you have to do, I won't stop you.”

“As if you could,” Merlin mutters. Arthur pointedly ignores him.

“Wait. We're really just gong to leave?” Elyan says, looking between them. It breaks Gwen's heart a little bit, to leave her brother so soon after reuniting, but she has made up her mind.

“Yes, you are. But I promise that I will come back.” If it weren't for the blasted sword, she'd gather him into her arms; as it is, all she can do is give him her most confident smile.

 

 

 

“They're gone.”

Morgana looks up from her spot on the floor. Aithusa is curled around her; they look like they haven't moved at all since Morgana sensed the knights' arrival and Gwen left to deal with them. The dragon gives a tiny growl and cranes up her neck to nose at Gwen's hand, and Gwen obliges and pets her snout.

Morgana watches the exchange. “I don't understand you.”

“No, you probably don't.” Gwen smiles a little bit – Aithusa has poked her tongue out and is now licking her fingers. “You've forgotten all about forgiveness, have you? Not that I'm forgiving you,” she adds quickly.

“There are things,” Morgana hisses, “that are unforgivable.”

“Like capturing someone and torturing them cruelly for hours?”

Morgana looks away. Gwen can't tell whether she's truly ashamed or regretful, but even if she isn't, she has at least the decency to pretend.

“I've burned the roots,” she says after a while. “There's a room with a bed and some furniture two floors below us. You can sleep there, if you want to.” She slips a small vial out of a hidden pocket in her dress. “This potion helps with nightmares. You haven't spent enough time with the mandrake roots that the effects are irreversible, but sleep might be unpleasant for a while.” A self-deprecating smile takes shape on her lips. “Of course, you have no reason to trust me on this, but the potion does work, most of the time. I take it every night.”

Gwen plucks the vial from her hand and bites back the automatic 'thank you'. Instead, turns on her heels and leaves the balcony. It's getting cold outside, and she needs a good night's sleep.

Sleep doesn't seem to agree, though. As soon as her head hits the pillow, the buzz in her head starts up, the most prominent thought being, _Guinevere Pendragon, what on earth are you doing?_

And it's a valid question – what _is_ she doing? Is she walking right into her captor's trap, turned into a willing slave by the mandrake roots? Or – or is she really just trying to help an old friend? She did mean everything she told Morgana; she has not forgiven her, and she won't until Morgana proves herself capable of regret and atonement, but she does deserve a chance to do so. And Gwen wouldn't have thought it possible, but after seeing Morgana around Aithusa, she truly believes there is compassion left in her.

Or maybe she doesn't deserve that chance. Maybe Gwen is just desperate for the friend she lost so long ago, the friend she could always rely on to protect her, who would trust her with her every secret in return. Every secret except for the biggest one.

But Gwen doesn't like thinking too much about Morgana not revealing her sorcery to her, because she understands why she didn't say anything. She must have been frightened for her life, growing up in fear of herself, watching all those executions, hearing her father condemn and kill countless of people that weren't so different from her, and how could she expect a mere serving girl to keep such a heavy secret?

It still hurts, though.

Turning on her mattress yet again, Gwen decides that trying out Morgana's sleeping potion might not be a bad idea after all. It could be poison, of course; then again, Morgana has plenty of chances to poison her, and the smile on her face when she'd given her the vial seemed genuine enough.

The potion is a deep purple and tastes of lavender and something bitter; Gwen drinks it all at once. A slow warmth spreads down her throat into her belly and all the way out to her fingertips, and her eyelids get incredibly heavy all of a sudden. If it is poison after all, she thinks before falling asleep, then at least it is a pleasant way to die.

 

 

 

“I've prepared breakfast,” Morgana says in lieu of greeting – quite unnecessarily, too, considering that the long table is completely covered in fruit, bread and different kinds of cheeses. It smells delicious; torturing aside, she really isn't a bad host.

“We're leaving this place,” Gwen says as soon as she's seated.

Morgana starts plucking at a bunch of grapes, one eyebrow raised. “Right. And where are we going?”

“We'll think of something. But we need to leave. This tower swallows all light and I don't like it.”

“Then perhaps you should remember that you're dealing with a dark witch,” she snarls. “This is _my_ element.”

“You can't tell me that it isn't killing you, too.”

Morgana sighs and swallows one of the grapes. “I'll never understand why you're doing this.”

Gwen reaches for the bread rolls. “I've never known you to give up that quickly.”

“You do _not_ know me.”

“No, I suppose I don't.” The bread is soft and still warm, and it's filled with nuts and raisins. Gwen has never tasted anything better in her life. “I want to change that.”

Morgana barks out a dry laugh. “What, you think you can manipulate me into becoming a good obedient servant to Camelot and her king?”

“That's a little rich coming from you,” Gwen retorts. “And I never said I would return to Camelot.”

“Of course you will. You'll have to run back to your precious king eventually.”

She almost smiles at the offence. “If you're trying to insult me, I'm sure you can do better.”

Morgana looks like she's just a hair's breadth away from throwing a grape at Gwen. “I'm not leaving Aithusa behind.”

“I'm not asking you to.”

“Then _where_ are we supposed to go?”

Gwen takes another bite of her bread roll, feigning nonchalance. It's no less delicious than the first time. “Do you remember Ealdor?”

Morgana's eyes widen. “You are out of your mind,” she declares.

“I might be, thanks to you.”

“Do I get any say in this?”

Each and every citizen of Camelot would swear on their mother's grave that Queen Guinevere is the epitome of patience, and under any other circumstance they would be correct. However, after all of the things that have happened in the last two days, Gwen can't help it if her fuse is a little bit shorter than usual.

She slams her hand down on the table.

“No, you don't. You attacked two of my closest friends with a pair of vicious snakes, threw me off my horse, dragged me here until I was so exhausted I was half dead on my feet, then threw me into a room and locked me there like some kind of animal, along with screaming roots that were meant to drive me mad, all the while pretending you still cared about me for whatever sick game you felt like playing, and all of this just in order to get Arthur to come here and be killed by an enchanted sword, and now that you've for some reason decided to abandon that plan, you _expect_ to have a say in what comes next?”

Morgana stares at her with wide eyes. “If you hate me that much, then leave. You're free to go!”

Gwen shakes her head in frustration. “I _don't_ hate you and I'm _not_ leaving! But if you want to be the one making decisions, you will have to put me back in chains. I am not your servant anymore.”

Morgana looks away, quietly mumbling something.

“What was that?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“Tell me.”

“What a demanding queen you make.” The witch sighs. “I _said_ , you were never just my servant.”

And just like that, Gwen deflates. She hates herself a little bit for it – is she really that defenceless against any attempt at manipulation? – but Morgana hasn't actually _done_ anything to suggest she would be lying. None of her actions make sense, but they seem genuine. And to hear that even after all these years of hatred, she still remembers their friendship –

Gwen takes a deep breath.

“I know. That's why I'm here. Morgana, I want to be friends again.”

Morgana huffs a laugh. “Isn't it a little too late for that?”

“I don't think it is.”

“I have no reason to trust you.”

“Neither do I.”

Morgana is silent for a while. Then, abruptly, she pushes her chair away and stands up. “Fine. We're going to Ealdor. I'm getting Aithusa ready. Shouldn't take too long with her to get there.”

Gwen blinks, unsure if she's heard correctly. “We're _flying_ on Aithusa?”

“What else would we do? I don't have two horses, and she's stronger than she looks.”

Morgana adds that last part with the unwavering pride that she has always had, along with unmistakeable fondness. And suddenly Gwen knows that she made the right decision staying here.

 

 

 

After almost a full day of riding on a dragon's back, Gwen has to conclude that humans are definitely, definitely not made for flying and that they should stay on the ground forever. It's unnatural and more frightening than anything she's ever experienced, and her saddle-spoiled thighs are sore about half an hour in; all she can do is grit her teeth and reluctantly hold onto Morgana even tighter.

Morgana, who Gwen has never seen happier than in this moment.

As they're landing on a deserted forest clearing to take a short break (after carefully avoiding anything resembling a village), she twists around to grin at Gwen with pure, undiluted joy, almost maniacal in its intensity. Gwen has no idea how to respond, but the smile is gone in an instant anyway.

Despite her crooked and sickly appearance, Aithusa seems to be used to flying great distances with weight on her back. She must have been carrying Morgana around for quite some time now; the small houses of Ealdor come into view much faster than Gwen would have expected.

They land on a clearing in the woods nearby; the heavy impact of Aithusa's feet on the ground rattles through Gwen's body. Morgana slides off her dragon like she does this every day, then extends a hand as if wanting to help Gwen. She remembers herself at the last moment and draws her arm back.

Gwen climbs off of Aithusa's back, stumbles a few paces – the experience of soaring through the skies over her kingdom still has her heart pounding – and then starts to walk into the direction of Ealdor without waiting for Morgana.

“Aithusa stays here,” she says over her shoulder. “She can hunt in the woods, but she can't be seen.”

Aithusa gives her a sad look, while Morgana glares at her, her joy of flying clearly dissipated.

“Who do you take me for? I'm better at hiding than you could ever be, thank you very much.”

Gwen sighs. “Are you going to take everything I say as an insult or are you coming?”

Morgana sighs as well, then kisses the dragon on the snout, pats her neck twice, and follows Gwen out of the woods.

This is off to a great start.

 

 

 

Hunith is staring at her, wide-eyed, a dish cloth in one hand, the other one on the doorknob.

“Guinevere! And... ” She trails off, seeing Morgana right behind. Her eyes grow even wider.

“It's alright,” Gwen hurries to say, which makes Morgana snort. “It's good to see you, Hunith. Could we come in for a moment?”

Hunith eyes Morgana warily, and the lines on her face deepen. Gwen knows Merlin's mother to be a woman with a good heart who has had to rely on herself a little too often to trust easily, but she must remember the young women that helped defend her village what seems like a lifetime ago, remember Morgana's fierce protectiveness and her sympathy with the people of Ealdor, and deem it more important than whatever word has reached her about the atrocities the witch has committed, because she nods and steps aside to let them in.

She gestures for them to sit down at the table, which Gwen does, while Morgana prefers to loom in the corner, still as a marble statue. For a second Gwen really wishes she'd be a bit more normal, but after all nothing about this situation is normal. She'll have to get used to the unpredictable.

“So,” Hunith says with tentative warmth in her eyes, after hanging the dish cloth over the back of a chair and sitting down across from Gwen, “what brings you here, your Highness?”

Gwen likes that she gets straight to the point where someone else might have fussed and offered them drinks or food or something ridiculous like that; Hunith has known her before she became queen, and Gwen suddenly realises how much she misses that.

“I can't explain much, unfortunately. But we're on a – a mission, sort of, and I remember your kindness and generosity and wanted to ask if we could stay here with you, for a few days.” She pauses. “You can say no, of course, we wouldn't want to impose.”

Hunith frown at Gwen's use of 'we' and glances back and forth between Gwen and Morgana, not saying anything. Finally, she focuses on the witch with something like steel in her eyes.

“Last I heard you're trying to kill the king of Camelot,” she remarks.

“Not at the moment,” Morgana replies evenly, still hovering in the corner of the room.

That, Gwen figures, is as close as an explanation as Morgana is going to give. “She's with me, if that's what your worried about. Arthur knows about it.” That last part is only true in the vaguest of senses, but it's what Hunith needs to hear.

She leans back in her chair, clearly conflicted. “I have to say that I'm a little surprised.”

_Tell me about it_. “I promise we won't cause any trouble. We can help you with the housework. You wouldn't think it, but Morgana bakes excellent bread rolls.” Gwen throws a quick glance at Morgana, who raises an eyebrow in something like astonished amusement.

The comment makes Hunith smile. “I suppose I could use some help around the house. If you're up to sharpening some axes, your Highness.”

“Please. Just say Gwen.”

 

 

 

Gwen wakes with a start, sweat running down her forehead. She blinks a few times, but no, she's not in the tower on the sickly warm stone tiles anymore; instead she's in a small chamber of Hunith's house, with a rough wool blanket and a mattress of prickly hay beneath her. Her brother's screams are still ringing in her ears; it's worst when she dreams of Elyan, of him hating her for letting their father die and for never trying to find her brother – mostly because she can't really tell if he's wrong.

She twists on her mattress to press down a stray piece of hay poking her back and ends up face to face with Morgana, eyes wide open in the dark.

Of course, Gwen knew that they'd be sleeping in close quarters – the cottage is really not that big – and it bothers her less than she thought it would. Here, out of her dark tower, surrounded by normal and mundane things, Morgana seems smaller, almost harmless. It's a dangerous assumption, but at least it gives Gwen the illusion of having the upper hand.

“Did I wake you?”

Morgana ignores her question. “You took the potion, didn't you?”

Gwen nods. “What about it? Are you going to tell me it was poison all along?”

Morgana frowns. “It's supposed to stop nightmares.”

“Yes, well, maybe you're not as good at potion-making as you thought you were.”

It comes out less insulting and more teasing than intended; Gwen must still be very tired.

Morgana huffs, and it's almost petulant. “I'll have you know I'm a very competent witch.”

“I'm sure you are.”

“What are we doing here, Gwen?”

The question is hardly more than a whisper, but it has an urgency that makes Gwen pause.

“I don't know,” she admits. “I'm still trying to figure it out.”

“How reassuring.”

“You've been alone far too long. It'll be good for you to be around people for a while.”

That seems to be the wrong thing to say – Morgana's wide eyes turn furious within a second.

“I could burn this place down in a second if I wanted to,” she hisses. “I don't need help. I've never asked for help!”

Gwen sighs. “Yes,” she says. “That's the point.”

Without another word, she rolls over and goes back to sleep.

 

 

 


	2. FROM EALDOR TO THE FOREST OF BALOR

 

 

 

The following days feel like Gwen has travelled back in time. Hunith, with the bluntness and pragmatism that Gwen remembers, doesn't shy away from assigning mundane tasks to queens and witches, and so Gwen finds herself washing clothes, working on the fields, repairing a few old iron pots (something she hasn't done since leaving her smithy behind). Even sleeping on a hay mattress on the ground instead of a four-poster bed with brocade curtains is more of a nostalgic throwback than an inconvenience. It all comes back easily, and Hunith is so friendly and familiar with her that Gwen feels a bit lighter every day. Her responsibilities to her kingdom, the horrors of her time in Morgana's tower, the screams that, despite the sleeping potion, still echo through her head at night – here, she's allowed to forget all of it, just for a while, and let go.

And then, of course, there's Morgana. On some days, she spends an awful lot of time in the forest (with Aithusa, presumably – Gwen certainly doesn't blame her for missing her scaly companion) and comes back with bags full of flowers and herbs, hardly talking to anyone. On other days, Gwen sees her chatting with a villager, or feeding the chickens, or mending a tear in one of Hunith's dresses, a concentrated look on her face, and on these days something rises within Gwen, a desperate hope for a friendship – for a _person_ she'd long thought to be lost. Sometimes at night, Morgana wakes with a scream, startling Gwen out of her own fitful sleep, and can't seem to stop shaking; sometimes she doesn't rest at all, and Gwen finds her sitting with her back to the stone wall just like when she fell asleep, staring at nothing. Sometimes though, sometimes she just sleeps, and wakes up the next morning as if everything was normal, with a slight smile that lingers for just a few seconds, until indifference settles on her face.

One day, Gwen walks into the kitchen after an afternoon of sharpening axes and knives with the woman next door – Bertha, if she remembers correctly – only to finds Hunith and Morgana standing at the table, both up to their elbows in white bread dough full of raisins and nuts. Hunith must have just said something funny, because there's that smile on Morgana's face, the one she has in the mornings that doesn't look mocking or maniacal.

“Oh, hello Gwen,” Hunith says. “As you can see, I'm putting Morgana's bread-making abilities to the test.”

Morgana glances over at Gwen; the smile on her face falters, leaving something behind that's impossible to read. “It would be a lot faster if I just used magic.”

“Now now, my lady,” Hunith chides. “We agreed we were going to do this without magic, didn't we?”

Gwen suspects it was less an agreement and more of an order from Hunith, but Morgana would never admit to that.

“We did.”

“Good. Magic might be useful, but sometimes manual work is more rewarding. Don't you think so, Gwen?”

Gwen stands in the doorway, unsure what to make of that. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that magic – while not always accepted – is legal in many places outside of Camelot, like, for instance, Essetir, which Ealdor belongs to. To someone like her, who has seen sorcerers kill and torture and drive into madness, 'magic might be useful' doesn't make a lot of sense. To someone like Hunith, on the other hand …

“I didn't know it could be used for such normal things,” she admits.

Morgana stops kneading her dough. “What? How else do you think I …” She trails off, clearly not wanting to mention anything that happened in the tower. “Magic can be used for a lot of things,” she says instead. “Different things. It can create, it can heal.”

“Well,” Gwen replies, swallowing. “I've only ever seen it destroy.”

Hunith has stopped kneading as well, quietly watching their exchange. Morgana looks at Gwen with round eyes. For a long moment, neither of them say anything.

“Yes,” Morgana agrees eventually. “Yes, I – I suppose you have.”

A few hours later, when they're getting ready for bed and Gwen is reaching for the vial of sleeping potion, a hand on her arm stills her.

“I've tried to develop the formula,” Morgana says, handing her a new vial of a much lighter purple colour instead. “It should work better for you.”

So that's what Morgana must have been doing in the forest – Gwen can just imagine her sitting on a log, brewing potions, Aithusa at her side. She takes the time to look at the witch, really look at her. Morgana's hair is still long and somewhat wild, but carefully brushed, and the tips have been cut – Hunith's work, no doubt. She's in a plain tunic and trousers, like they both have been since they arrived, their dresses being torn beyond the point of mending, and the simplicity of it suits her well. Her collarbones don't look as sharp, nor her cheeks as hollow, and a bit of the restlessness is gone from her eyes. She's still thin, and her eyes still flicker and her fingers still tremble sometimes, but – she looks like she's getting better.

And, Gwen realises, she doesn't have to do this. She doesn't have to walk through the forest for hours, in search for just the right ingredients for this new potion. She doesn't have to talk to the villagers or bake bread with Hunith. She could have left with Aithusa, or screamed at them in anger, or even killed them all if she wanted to. Instead she mends clothes and helps Gwen fall asleep.

She's trying. For some unfathomable, improbable reason, she's trying.

“Thank you,” Gwen says earnestly and takes the vial.

Morgana's eyes widen in surprise. “Don't thank me,” she snaps. “I – just take it. Tomorrow you'll tell me if it works.”

Gwen nods and swallows the potion. It tastes like violets.

 

 

 

Of course, after barely two weeks have passed, it all turns out to be too good to be true.

Gwen is sitting in Hunith's garden, along with Hunith herself, Morgana, and a few other villagers, chatting about this and that while weaving baskets (a task that Gwen had never done and didn't know she'd enjoy so much), when she sees the woman from next door hurry towards them.

“Hello, Bertha!” Hunith greets cheerfully. “Care to join us? You said you'd need a new basket for your apples.”

“The apples can wait.” Bertha pauses for a moment to gather her breath and her thoughts. “I was visiting the neighbouring villages, and word is spreading that Sarrum of Amata is making plans to come to Camelot.”

Sarrum of Amata. Gwen has never met him, but she knows the name from discussions at the round table – very heated discussions, as she recalls. “He's scheduled to visit Camelot for treaty negotiations in about a month.”

“Well, there's the horse in the bedchamber.” Bertha pauses again. “He's been recruiting soldiers for his army like a madman.”

The words ring in the air for a moment. Gwen sits up straighter. When talking about the peace treaty, they had all known that Sarrum could not truly be trusted, but Arthur had still thought he'd make a valuable ally. Specifically, Gwen remembers with sudden dread, in the fight against Morgana.

“Sarrum has many enemies,” she says slowly. “The army might not be meant for an attack on Camelot.”

Bertha shakes her head. “None of his other enemies would warrant this kind of recruitment. He's been talking to noblemen all around your kingdom's border who have an interest in conquering the land. He's also spoken to people who were known to hate Uther Pendragon.”

Gwen drops her half-woven basket abruptly and stands up. “Then I must return to Camelot at once. I thank you all for your hospitality. It's been wonderful to work alongside you once more.” She smiles at each of the villagers until her eyes reach Morgana.

Morgana, who has gone white as a sheet, eyes empty and fingers shaking.

“Morgana?” Gwen says. “What is it?”

Her eyes snap up to Gwen's face. She looks like she wants to say something, but her lips are pressed together.

She looks absolutely terrified.

Gwen leans down to touch her shoulder, and the contact seems to unleash something. Within a moment, Morgana is up, basket on the ground, and running away – towards the forest, Gwen realises.

No. No, this can't be. If she leaves now, it's all been for nothing.

“I have to go after her,” she tells Hunith.

The woman nods with serious understanding. “I'll prepare horses for you.”

“That won't be necessary.” Gwen hesitates for a moment, then hugs her fiercely. “Thanks for everything. All of you.”

Hunith smiles and presses a kiss to her forehead. “It's been an honour, your Highness.”

And then Gwen is off, running after Morgana, without looking back.

 

 

 

She finds her in the clearing where they landed two weeks ago, on Aithusa's back, trying to get her off the ground.

“I don't care that Gwen's not here!” she screams. “We're leaving, now!”

Aithusa whines, digging her claws into the grass. When she sees Gwen approaching, she hurries over to her on all fours, greeting her with a press of the snout to her neck.

“Smart girl,” Gwen says. “Morgana, what's going on?”

Morgana stares at her, full of fear and fury. “Go back to Camelot. I'm leaving. As soon as this stubborn mule of a dragon gets the move on.” She kicks Aithusa in the flank, but there's no force behind it.

“Don't – it'll take me forever to get to Camelot without Aithusa.”

“That's not my problem!”

“Morgana, please,” Gwen says, frantically trying to get through to her. She reaches for Morgana's hand and grasps it. “Just tell me what's wrong.”

“ _What's wrong_?” Morgana wrenches her hand free and jumps off Aithusa, face twisted in anger. “You're telling me Camelot is to sign peace treaties with the man that kept me prisoner in a dark hole – kept Aithusa in there – she couldn't even stretch her wings – no light – for two years, Gwen, _two years_ – and you're asking me – ”

Her breaths start coming shorter and shorter, until she can't get a word out, and Gwen feels terribly, terribly helpless.

“I didn't know,” she says, “I didn't know it was him – I swear, Morgana, I didn't – none of us knew – ”

Morgana laughs, far too loudly. “No,” she chokes out, “no, you didn't.”

And then she collapses into Gwen's arms, sobbing.

Gwen hesitates for a moment. This is the woman who, only two weeks ago, imprisoned her in a tower with the intent of killing her husband and torturing her into madness, presumably. The woman who still hasn't said she's sorry, but spends hours of her day trying to make Gwen sleep better. The woman who, once upon a time, had been her best friend. The woman who really is trying. And to Gwen, that means something.

She wraps her arms around Morgana. “I'll protect you from him. I swear it.”

It almost sounds like Morgana is laughing through her sobs.

 

 

 

Aithusa, Gwen calculates, can fly for about three hours in one stretch, and, after two weeks of resting and hunting in the woods around Ealdor, manages about three of these stretches in a day. At that speed, it will take them less than two days to reach Camelot. They have to take a detour to avoid villages as much as possible, and Gwen doesn't exactly look forward to spending even more time on Aithusa's back, but it's their best option and she is getting used to it. In fact, once she can push aside the sheer terror of barrelling through the air at speeds that no animal should ever reach, it's actually quite freeing.

Morgana is silent all the way through their first stop in the woods, and almost doesn't say anything when they land for the second break, either. It's unnerving; it reminds Gwen of that strange taste in the air right before a thunderstorm. She watches her walk around the forest, picking some berries here and there, then digging an apple out of her bag and slicing it in half with a wave of her hand.

“Here,” she finally says, dropping the berries into Gwen's lap along with half the apple. “They help against travel sickness.”

She sounds tense and defeated at once. Gwen does not like her tone at all.

“I'm fine, thank you. Riding through the skies on an ancient magical creature isn't that bad,” she says lightly. Morgana doesn't react.

They sit in uncomfortable silence, Gwen chewing on the berries, until Morgana speaks up again.

“So what's the plan?”

Gwen blinks at her. “I have to go back to Camelot and warn my kingdom.”

“And then?”

“What do you mean, then?”

“I told you, I'm not coming back to Camelot. I'm not bowing to her king.” Morgana's eyes narrow into a glare. “Will you just sit on your throne, like nothing happened, and continue to rule while I – ”

She snaps her mouth shut, as if afraid she's said too much, and maybe she has because Gwen hears the words clearly – _while I am left alone, again_.

“I'm not abandoning you,” she says forcefully. “I'll warn them, and I'll come back, and we can – ”

Continue whatever it is they're doing.

“Please,” Morgana snorts. “Arthur won't let you leave a second time. I hardly understand why he allowed you to stay at the tower in the first place.”

“I'm the queen,” Gwen reminds her, pride somewhat wounded. “I can go wherever the hell I please, and Arthur knows that.”

“Does he? You talk so little about him. I was convinced you'd had a fight.”

Gwen frowns. It's true, she hasn't talked about him much, but – “What do you care?”

“I don't,” the witch snaps. “Let's go.”

It's once they're back on Aithusa above the forests and mountains that she realises how little she's even thought about Arthur, these past two weeks. Back in the tower she'd been so glad to see him come to her rescue that leaving him had seemed like a hard decision; now she feels inexplicably free without him. Maybe she's come to associate him so much with her duties as queen of Camelot that his absence lifted the weight of her responsibilities – at the same time, she enjoys being queen and serving her people and fancies herself a just ruler.

Maybe it's simply that they've both changed too much from the people they once were. People that loved and needed each other, but now hardly know how to do that anymore and cannot admit it.

Gwen closes her eyes briefly against the wind washing over her face. She might not feel what she felt for Arthur all those years ago, when they risked everything just to be together, but he's still her husband and her king, and she has to warn him against the incoming threat, whether Morgana likes it or not. Where they'll go from there, well. She'll cross that bridge when she gets to it.

 

 

 

As it turns out, “let's go warn Arthur” is not as straightforward a plan as Gwen may have thought.

She understands this when, on the first break of their second day of flying and only a few hours away from the citadel, they hear a voice from within the forest not very far away.

“No … no, please … hang on, Kara, you have to hang on – ”

Gwen shoots Morgana a look. “I'll go see,” she says, standing up from their spot on a tree trunk.

Morgana rolls her eyes, rising as well. “You and your generosity. If it's a horde of bandits, don't say I didn't warn you.”

Gwen crooks a smile. “Well, that's why you're with me, isn't it?”

They follow the voice a few steps into the woods until they happen onto a young man, kneeling on the ground, propping a girl up in his arms and trying to feed her something from a flask. She looks pale, almost lifeless, her brown hair a stark contrast against her ashy skin, and Gwen now sees why: an arrow is stuck in her side, blood staining her dress. There's a horse tied to a tree a few feet away; its saddle is bloody, as well.

“Can we help you?” Gwen calls.

The boy flinches and looks up at them. His eyes widen comically, flitting between her and Morgana.

“My lady,” he says with no small amount of confusion. “What are you doing here with the queen?”

It takes Gwen a second to realise he's talking to Morgana, addressing her as 'my lady' like she never left the court.

“You're a druid,” Morgana says, slowly approaching him.

The boy shakes his head. “Not really, but Kara is. I met her a few weeks ago, she was all alone – helped her find a druid settlement – the camp was just raided by a group of Camelot knights. I escaped unharmed, but they got Kara with one of their arrows – I could hardly keep her on the horse – ”

“It can't have been Camelot knights,” Gwen cuts in sharply. “We passed laws to forbid raids against the druids months ago.”

The boy's eyes settle on her, suddenly filled with desperate, youthful anger. “Then maybe you need to learn how to enforce your laws on your own people!”

Gwen blanches. She's trying to think of something to say, but can't come up with anything. She knows for a fact that these laws have been passed since she was there when they signed them, but it's impossible to know what every single group of knights out there is doing, and some of them might remember Uther's vicious hatred against the druids as the good old days. How many more people have suffered under Arthur – under _her_ – without their knowledge?

“Gwen, she's hardly breathing,” Morgana cuts into her thoughts, now on her knees next to the girl called Kara, and when did she start caring about this person? “We have to find a healer at once. She's in no condition to travel.”

Instantly, the boy's anger is gone and replaced with something like reverence. “I was on my way to the source of Gedwenn, my lady. The water there has healing properties – ”

“You're taking her all the way to the forest of Balor?” Morgana interrupts. “That's at least two more days of horseback, she'll never survive it!”

Tears well up in the boy's eyes. “What choice do I have?”

Morgana looks at Gwen with clear intent. They have a dragon. Even with three people, they can make it in time.

Gwen doesn't know why Morgana, who has had little regard for the lives of strangers before, wants this girl to live so badly, but she herself has no intention to let a person – a _druid_ – die if she can help it.

“What's your name?” she asks.

The boy wipes at his eyes and looks at her warily. “Daegal.”

“I'm proposing a deal, Daegal. We will take Kara to the source of Gedwenn – ”

“You're hardly going to be faster than me,” Daegal says.

Morgana laughs at that. “Oh, believe me, we are.”

“We're taking her there,” Gwen continues, “and make sure she recovers. Meanwhile, you ride to the citadel with a message for the king.”

He stares at her incredulously. “My mum,” he rasps, “was killed in the Great Purge. I know what you're like, you Camelot people. No one will listen to a word I say.”

“They will if you show them this.” Slowly and deliberately, Gwen slides her ring with the royal seal off her finger and extends it to Daegal.

He doesn't move. “You have no way of knowing whether I'll do what you say.”

“If you trust us with Kara,” Gwen says decisively, “I'll trust you with this.”

Daegal still seems unsure. Morgana places a hand on his shoulder.

“It's the only way for Kara to survive. I give you my word that we will bring her back safely, but this message must reach Camelot.”

“Is that what you want, my lady?”

Morgana glances at Gwen. “Yes.”

Daegal nods, wiping away the last of his tears, and finally takes the ring from Gwen. “Then you may count on me,” he says, turning to Gwen, “your Highness.”

 

 

 

_Arthur,_

_I hope this message reaches you in good health. I would have preferred to deliver it myself, but circumstances have prevented me; still, rest assured that I am well._

_Sarrum of Amata is assembling an army in preparation for the treaty negotiations. He has been recruiting specifically amongst those who call themselves enemies of Camelot, and of you. He cannot be trusted, no matter what he says. It might be best to send out a scouting party to confirm my warning and find out what exactly he is planning. Please be careful._

_The boy who delivered this message has lost a great deal because of Camelot; be kind to him._

_Tell Merlin to take care of himself, and of you._

_Best wishes,_

_Guinevere_

 

 

 

The sun is setting over the forest of Balor when they arrive at their destination. Kara has been slipping in and out of consciousness the whole time, but Gwen couldn't do anything except make sure that her hold on the girl is still tight and that she's secured between her and Morgana in the front. They've been flying without pause, and Aithusa must have sensed the urgency of the situation, for even while carrying three people she hasn't complained once and kept a steady pace for nearly seven hours straight. Her exhaustion is evident in the way she practically collapses in the clearing, giving them all a thorough shake, and buries her head in the cool grass.

Morgana climbs off of the dragon's back; Gwen makes a move to hand Kara over to her, but Morgana stops her with a slight shake of the head. Her eyes flash golden, and Kara levitates right into her arms.

“Well, that's useful,” Gwen comments with a tight smile.

Morgana makes an effort to smile back, the worry for the druid girl showing clearly on her face, and starts walking.

Gwen has never been to the forest of Balor, and she doesn't know if Morgana has, but the witch seems to sense where they have to go. Every now and then, she'll stop to readjust her hold on Kara, or to lean down to pick a certain plant, or to just wait for a moment, eyes glowing, and then continue into a different direction with a decisive “this way”. When Gwen sees beads of sweat forming on her forehead after a while, she walks up to her and silently takes Kara out of her arms; Morgana smiles at her and continues leading the way with strengthened resolve.

The source of Gedwenn is the epitome of a magical source, in that it looks exactly like any regular source, a stream of water running over dark rocks and pooling into small cauldrons. Except that at a second glance, the grass in the vicinity is of a slightly more vibrant green, the fish swimming through the pools look particularly healthy, and the whole place seems coated in a faint blue glow. In the light of the setting sun, surrounded by tiny white flowers and strong trees covered in moss, it is downright beautiful. Maybe Gwen should be more apprehensive about a place that's supposedly full of magic, but all she feels is a deep sense of safety.

“Is this it?” she asks quietly.

Morgana nods in wonder. Her eyes haven't stopped glowing gold since they came here.

Gwen lays Kara down in the grass; the girl makes a pained sound in her throat. The arrow is still lodged in her side, which has stopped her from bleeding out, but now it needs to go.

“The pain might – ” Gwen starts to say, but Morgana has already heard her; at a wave of her hand, Kara slips into unconsciousness.

Gwen steels herself the way she has seen Gaius do countless of times, back when she used to help him tend to the injured in Camelot's times of crisis, and pulls the arrow out.

The sound is sickening, and for an instant she's convinced Kara will simply bleed out before their eyes, right there in the grass that's a touch too bright, but then Morgana is at her side and picks the girl up carefully. Together, they carry her towards the water and lower her into the gentle stream. The water is cold, but humming with a strange sort of energy that even Gwen can feel.

“Will it work?” she asks.

Morgana looks at her, one hand keeping Kara's head above the water. Like Gwen's, her trousers are soaked up to her waist.

“It has to,” she says.

“How do you know?”

Under normal circumstances, covering a heavily wounded person in cold water would lead to certain death. Gwen has never seen magic heal any wound such as this one, and if anyone had told her it could be used for saving lives she might not have believed it. But Morgana stands in this river with so much faith that she's starting to wonder whether she's had the wrong idea of magic all along.

The light of the sunset reflects in Morgana's eyes. “Magic is not a weapon to wield, Gwen, nor is it a tool to use. It follows its own rules, anchored deep within the very earth we walk on. It does not care for human feuds, but it does care for human life.”

“You sound like you've thought about this.”

“I've had a lot of time to think, lately.” Morgana swallows. “A long time ago, Morgause told me that I was a High Priestess of the Old Religion. I think I am beginning to understand what it means.”

Gwen wants to reply something, but they're interrupted by a weak moan. Kara has opened her eyes and is staring at both of them.

“Where is … who – why am I covered in water?”

They look at each other, and Gwen can't help it. She bursts into relieved laughter.

 

 

 

Morgana has dried all of their clothes with a spell, lit a fire for them and wrapped Kara up in the few blankets they have, with a tender care that made Gwen think of her sleeping potions. The druid girl hasn't said much, aside from a confused thank you, before going right back to sleep; Gwen doesn't blame her. She probably won't remember much in the morning.

Gwen shifts on the log she's sharing with Morgana.

“That was a good thing you did today.”

“We did,” Morgana corrects, poking the fire with a branch. It flares up, spitting tiny red and golden sparks everywhere.

“You really care for that girl. Even though you've never met her.”

“She must have been through a lot.”

“As have many other people.”

“What do you want from me?” Morgana snaps.

Gwen falls silent, waiting for an outburst that never comes. Instead, Morgana suddenly starts to tremble, dry sobs escaping her throat.

“Gwen,” she whispers, voice rough. “Gwen, I'm so sorry. I should never have taken you to that tower. Believe me, if I could undo it, I would.”

The admission hits Gwen square in the chest, leaving her breathless.

“Then – why did you do it?”

Morgana takes a few deep breaths, but she can't seem to calm down. “I just – I needed someone – to understand – ”

She breaks off, but Gwen knows what she means.

“I do,” she says gently. “I do understand.”

“Yes, that's the problem!” Morgana buries her fingers in her hair. There are tears in her eyes now, but Gwen hesitates to touch her. “How can you still be so kind to me when – ”

“When what?” Gwen prompts her. “Morgana, if I can be kind, don't you think you can be, as well? Don't you think you can heal?”

Morgana shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. “It's not that easy!”

“No, it's not,” Gwen concedes. “It's very hard. But it's worth it.”

For a long while, Morgana stays silent and still, defeated.

“I've forgotten, Gwen,” she admits, finally. “I've forgotten how to be kind, how to love – I'm trying, I'm trying so hard but I just can't remember …”

To hell with it. Gwen reaches up and pries Morgana's hands out of her hair, cradling them in her own palm. She presses their foreheads together and breathes slowly until her friend – because somehow, they can be friends again – has calmed down.

“Then you must try harder.”

 

 

 

The next morning has Gwen waking to an empty bedroll next to her. Alarmed, she looks around their camp, but Kara is still sleeping soundly next to a quietly snoring Aithusa. Gwen does not envy the druid girl for waking up to such a sight unprepared, but at least the dragon will be able to protect her should anyone happen to find them. Morgana is probably off in the forest, collecting even more plants; her bag is getting worryingly full.

Gwen, for one, is in desperate need for a proper wash after yesterday's half-hearted soaking, so she rubs her face until she feels awake and makes her way to the river of Gedwenn where they set up camp. She's already halfway out of her clothes when she notices she's not alone.

Morgana is not off to gather herbs, apparently, seeing as she's standing in the middle of the river, completely naked. Wet as it is, her hair falls down to her ribs, which look a lot less bony now after two weeks of Hunith's good food. The water makes her skin sparkle in the morning light; Gwen feels the sudden urge to look away lest she blind herself. It's odd – she's seen Morgana bathe plenty of times and this should be no different.

It's been so long, she decides. She's just not used to it anymore. Nothing wrong with that.

She half-considers coming back at a later time when Morgana sees her.

“Gwen!” she calls, waving her over. “Get in here, the water is wonderful!”

The sadness that had haunted her yesterday evening has completely disappeared, replaced by a brilliant smile that Gwen finds very hard to resist. That too she hasn't seen in a long while. She undresses and slips into the water, swimming towards Morgana in a wide arc. The water _is_ wonderful, cool enough to soothe but not cold enough to burn. Gwen enjoys just swimming for a few minutes, then stops to cup some water into her hands and pour it over her head.

A hand on her bare shoulder stills her.

“Here, let me,” Morgana says behind her.

Gwen twists her head round with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “Have you ever washed someone else's hair, _my lady_?”

Morgana grins back. “I pride myself on being a quick study. Now, eyes ahead.”

Gwen complies and leaves Morgana to her work in silence. Despite her teasing words, she's quite touched by the gesture. For a moment, she indulges in imagining how things might have been if she'd been born a noblewoman, with Morgana as her magical maidservant – or better yet, as her knight, offering protection and counsel whenever she needed it. Morgana's fingers are soft in her hair, careful not to tug on any of the tangles that must inevitably have formed after two days of riding on dragonback.

“You have very beautiful curls,” Morgana says, running her hand between the strands to separate them. “I never noticed.”

Gwen's face feels very warm all of a sudden. “Thank you.”

“I'm not tugging too hard, am I?”

“No, no, it's fine. Impressive, actually, considering it's the first time you – ” She halts. “Are you using magic to wash my hair?”

Morgana's cheeky grin seeps into her voice. “I might be.”

“That's cheating! I should have you executed for this.”

For a moment, Gwen is worried that the joke was in poor taste, that she might have ruined the good mood of the morning and the entire day, possibly, but then she hears Morgana chuckle into her hair and it's the most glorious sound in the world.

It seems like the source of Gedwenn helps with healing all kinds of wounds.

When they're finished bathing and dressing (which Morgana does not offer to help Gwen with, thankfully, because she would have been at a loss of how to react), they walk back to their camp in companionable silence, only to find Kara poking a sleepy Aithusa's side with a stick.

“I _demand_ you tell me where Daegal is!” she exclaims. Aithusa flaps her wings once, pushing the druid into the grass, then turns her head and drifts off once more. Kara glares at her and hops to her feet again.

“Good morning,” Gwen says, unable to keep the amusement out of her voice.

Kara whirls around, and her eyes widen in the same manner Daegal's had before, except that hers quickly narrow back into suspicion. She's young, perhaps the same age as Mordred, Arthur's youngest knight (and also a druid, Gwen notes), but her body seems to contain an angry energy that goes beyond her age.

“You,” she hisses, “you're the queen of Camelot. You're responsible for the murder of my – ”

“She's with me,” Morgana cuts in, stepping halfway in front of Gwen. “She took a great risk for her kingdom in order to save your life, so you had better show her the respect she's due.”

Kara stares at her. “My lady – I'm sorry, but – ” She turns back to Gwen. “Even though I'm a druid?”

“Especially because you are a druid,” Gwen says with as much regality as she can muster. “Your people have suffered far too long under Camelot's rules, and even the laws passed to protect you fail to do so. I will not see any more druids die if I can help it.”

Kara swallows thickly, still confused. “Then … I owe you my gratitude.”

“And I you an apology.” With that, Gwen walks over to Aithusa, patting her long, scaly neck. “Wake up, sleepy girl. It's time for breakfast.”

Aithusa groans, but opens her eyes reluctantly and nudges the side of Gwen's face in greeting.

“Is that your dragon, my lady?” Gwen hears Kara ask Morgana with obvious envy in her voice.

“She belongs only to herself.”

“Why does she listen to _her_? _I_ couldn't wake her up.”

There's a moment of silence, and Gwen knows Morgana is smiling. “There's a lot more to the queen than you think.”

 

 

 

They spend the next day in the forest, just to make sure Kara has well and truly recovered, and the day after that as well, and Gwen can tell that Morgana is stalling but so is she. A part of her is itching to get back to the citadel, to make sure the warning has been heard and Arthur is doing the best he can to prepare for the treaty negotiations in a few weeks' time. Another part of her feels incredibly reluctant to climb back onto the throne of a kingdom she no longer fully believes in.

None of these parts really want to leave Morgana behind.

Kara, at least, turns out to be much better company than Gwen had first expected. The druid has made it her mission to make Aithusa listen to her and is attempting to train her using dead rabbits and belly rubs as a reward. Her success is moderate, but Aithusa does start to lick her face after a while, which is a very good sign with her.

Kara is also far less hostile towards Gwen after that first morning, even though she still harbours certain resentments against Camelot in general and her king in particular.

“He is blinded,” she's saying, when they're all sitting around the fire, Morgana curled into Aithusa, Gwen on a particularly comfortable log, “by his bigotry and hatred of magic, and we are the ones who suffer for it.”

“Bigotry and hatred that his father instilled in him,” Gwen reminds her.

“His father has been dead for years! How does this matter?”

“It matters precisely because of that.” She pauses for a moment, staring into the golden flames and thinking of her husband, somewhere within the walls of the citadel. His heart is steadfast and reliable and she loves him for it, but it has a tendency to make him inflexible. “Magic has hurt Arthur many times without ever helping him. Can you blame him for having a hard time trusting sorcerers?”

Kara just scoffs. “Most sorcerers, as you call them, don't even have enough magic to heat a teapot, let alone harm a king. He has enough non-magical enemies, why would he risk making himself magical ones as well?”

“It's not as simple,” Morgana says suddenly. She's been quiet for most of the conversation; Gwen doesn't blame her for not wanting to discuss that particular subject. “Arthur and I were very close once. Uther's hatred of magic poisoned my mind and pushed me away; Arthur fails every day to right his father's wrongs, and I resent him for that. But from his perspective, it is I who fails to show any amount of goodwill, to prove to him that magic is not only destructive. We're both to blame.” At Gwen's shocked look, she adds, “Him far more than me, of course.”

“Still,” Kara insists. “He claims to be a just king. He has a people to lead. He shouldn't be swayed by – by personal feelings!”

“Perhaps not,” Gwen concedes. “But perhaps they are also what makes him a just king.”

She falls silent for a while, a promise on the tip of her tongue – one that she is desperate to make, but might not be able to keep.

In that very moment, Morgana's eyes meet hers, and she nods as if she's read her thoughts in an instant. _Go on_.

Gwen takes a deep breath. “When I get back to the citadel, I will find time to talk to the king about the ban on magic. And I will do my best to convince him to lift it.” She looks at her two astonished companions. “You are right, both of you. This time of mistrust and bloodshed has to end.”

“You'd do that?” Kara's voice is as skeptical as it is hopeful.

Gwen inclines her head. “You have my word for it.”

Morgana hasn't said anything. She isn't smiling, but her eyes shine brightly, as if tears might spill out any moment.

In fact, she doesn't speak until much later, when Aithusa is snoring and Kara has curled up in her blanket and it's only the two of them.

“I'd like to show you something. Something else I can do with magic.”

Gwen, who has migrated from her seat on the log to the spot right next to Morgana against Aithusa's belly, wraps her cloak a bit tighter around herself and motions for her friend to continue.

The witch cups her hands together and starts to whisper an incantation, eyes glowing golden in the darkness of the night. At first Gwen doesn't know what's happening, but then she sees flowers peeking out between Morgana's fingers – violets, to be exact, quite a lot of them. They keep growing and growing, until Morgana spreads her hands, and they weave through each other to form a wreath.

No, Gwen corrects herself. A crown.

Morgana looks at the result and seems satisfied. “You know, for the longest time, I wanted the throne all to myself. I could not understand how you could be queen, while I had all the rights to the kingdom but was exiled as a criminal for who I am. I hated you for it. And now … ” She trails off, swallowing. “Now I look at you and I think, there is a good queen. There is a queen I could follow.”

Gwen is shaken to the core by her words, unable to comprehend what Morgana has just said. “Stop that. You're going to make me cry,” she says lightly, but the roughness of her voice betrays what was meant as a joke.

Morgana raises the flower crown and places it on top of Gwen's hair. It weighs next to nothing, and yet it grounds her more than any piece of metal ever could.

One of Morgana's hands drops away, but the other one trails down Gwen's face until it's resting on her cheek, touch even lighter than the flowers. Morgana's gaze slides down to her lips, and for a moment, a marvellous, short but definitely real moment, Gwen is convinced they're going to kiss.

They don't. But when they do go to sleep, Morgana curls up to her closer together than she used to, and Gwen lies awake for hours, thinking about what it means that she won't miss her husband when he's miles away, but will feel an almost desperate longing for the woman right next to her.

 

 

 

 


	3. FROM THE FOREST OF BALOR TO THE DARKLING WOODS

 

 

 

On the fourth day of their stay in the forest Kara sits down with them for breakfast and declares, “I want to go home.”

Aithusa, who has come to appreciate the druid's attention, gives a low whine and nudges her elbow with her snout, but Morgana nods in agreement.

“We should try and find the nearest druid camp.” The only druids Gwen knows live in the forest of Essetir, not very far away from Ealdor – which is where they came from, and she doesn't exactly want to go all the way back.

Kara chews on her lip like she's hiding something. “I'm not sure I should say this,” she starts, then of course, does it anyway. “There's a group of us – not very many, mind you, but they – they don't want to leave Camelot. So they hide out in the Darkling woods.”

Morgana raises her eyebrows. “That is foolishly close to the citadel.”

“Right!” Kara exclaims. “That's exactly what I said, but that _idiot_ Leonor found herself a sweetheart in the lower town and her parents wouldn't leave without her, and – anyway. I'm sure I could stay with them until I figure out what happened to the others after the raid.”

“I'll find out who is responsible for this,” Gwen promises.

“Well.” Morgana stands up and starts rolling up their blankets. “It's settled then. We're going to the Darkling woods.”

She doesn't look at Gwen at all when she says it, and Gwen has the sudden need to make her understand that this isn't over yet, that just because they're going back she won't be abandoned again.

“I'm riding in front today,” Gwen declares, on impulse.

Morgana halts in her packing. One of her eyebrows go up in a challenge. “Oh, are you?”

“Can't let you have all the fun, can I? Anyway, with all of this flying around, it's getting quite boring in the back.”

Considering that, Morgana looks her up and down; finally, a grin splits her face. “Good luck then, you madwoman.”

And well, maybe she is.

At the very least, Gwen gets to find out first hand that holding onto someone on a dragon is much easier than being the one held onto. Sitting right behind Aithusa's shoulder blades means bearing the brunt of her wing movement, but having only the base of the dragon's neck to latch onto, all while trying to anchor two more passengers behind her and, on top of everything, steer them away from any approaching villages. It's stressful, and Gwen is completely exhausted after half an hour.

She loves it.

It also takes her mind off the fact that Morgana has been glancing at her time and again, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how. Only during their last stop of the day does she finally open her mouth.

“You're going back to the citadel, aren't you?”

The blunt question reassures Gwen more than it surprises her. “Yes. I need to make sure the people are safe and ready for an attack. The negotiations are only three weeks away and – ”

Morgana holds up a hand to stop her. “I understand.”

That, on the other hand, is a bit surprising. “You're not angry?”

“You have your duties, and you care for a lot of people. That's nothing to be angry about.” She laughs quietly. “You've done so much for me already. It would be selfish to keep you, even if I wanted to.”

Gwen swallows. “Since when do you mind being selfish?”

Morgana stares at her for a second, then bumps their shoulders together playfully, diffusing the strange wistfulness of the moment. “Gwen! I'm trying to be noble here!”

“Don't worry, you're getting better at that.” She pauses for a moment. “What are your plans, then?”

“I spoke to Kara a few hours ago. She told me I'd be welcome to stay with the druids.” Morgana shifts on the grass and extends a hand to absently pet Aithusa's head, who is lying flat on the ground next to them. God, but Gwen is going to miss that beast. “You know, it's funny. When I first found out about my magic, I went to see the druids, and I was ready to leave my life at the castle behind and stay with them. They were so nice to me, Gwen. Finally – I had found someone who knew who I was and accepted me for it. And now I'm going back to them.” She smiles. “Makes for a nice circle, doesn't it?”

It does, but Gwen finds that she doesn't actually want things to loop around and be way they always were. It might be time for a change.

“I'll visit you,” she promises. “I'll find the right moment to sneak out of the castle and find you.”

Morgana nods, smile widening. “Then I'll be waiting.”

 

 

 

It's strange, after nearly two days of dragonback, to walk on solid ground again. Gwen tries to take comfort in the familiar tracks of the Darkling woods, the fresh air, the quiet birdsong, the evening's twilight through the branches; she also tries to ignore that for the first time in three weeks, she is alone.

Kara and Morgana have continued on to the northern part of the woods, after a goodbye that Gwen refuses to see as one because it _wasn't_ , damn it. She'll keep her promise to come back, of that she is sure, and if she actually has to sneak out of the castle for it.

But then – what will come after that? Will short, clandestine meetings in the forest be the only way to keep seeing Morgana once Gwen is back at Arthur's side? Or dare she hope that there is, somehow, a way for them to reconcile and for Morgana to be welcome in Camelot again?

She has no idea. All she knows is, she can't let go of that hard-won friendship now.

What remains to see is how much she'll have to sacrifice for it.

She's startled out of her thoughts by the sound of hooves hitting the ground. It's strangely nostalgic; with Aithusa around, she hasn't actually heard a horse in ages. For a second she worries they might be bandits, but then she gets a glimpse of red coats with a familiar dragon crest on the path crossing hers.

“Knights of Camelot!” she calls out; five heads turn immediately towards her, and she almost weeps with joy when she sees who's leading the group.

“Gwen?” Elyan says, eyes wide as dinner plates.

He's off his horse faster than she can start running, and sharp crash of his armour into her ribs when they embrace has to be the best pain she's ever felt.

“I thought you'd died,” he says, words spilling out like a waterfall, “I rode out looking for you as often as the king would let me, and then your letter came, and we have to get you back _right now_ , have Gaius look you over – ”

“Elyan,” Gwen interrupts him. “I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

She lets go of him, gently but firmly, and steps back so he can look at her. “Sure.”

Elyan nods, a wide, disbelieving grin on his face, squeezes her shoulders one last time, and goes to fetch his horse.

They're at the citadel in no time. Despite the late hour, everything is bustling with life, people spilling out of streets and stray chicken crossing roads, pigs squeaking and merchants taking down their stands for the day, the smell of herbs and spices and rotten fruit in the air. It's overwhelming, and Gwen is still reeling from the sensual overload when they reach the castle.

“Look who I found, sire!” Elyan calls with unrestrained excitement.

Word must travel faster these days than it used to, for on the stone steps, regal as ever in crown and his red cloak, Arthur is already waiting for her.

“Guinevere,” he breathes, in the exact same way he said her name when he came to rescue her from the tower. Back then, hearing it had been wonderful; now, Gwen is more than happy to see him, but that sense of wonder is gone.

She slides off of Elyan's horse (after Aithusa, it seems like child's play to her) and walks over to him while he hurries down the steps to take her in his arms.

“You're back,” he whispers into her hair. She nods against his shoulder.

“I am.”

And yes, she really is more than happy to see him, even though it's telling that neither of them went in for a kiss.

Arthur holds her against him for a long moment, then lets go to smile broadly at her. He looks a bit tired, but otherwise healthy; no doubt Merlin's work, Gwen is certain. She'll have to say hello to him in private as soon as possible.

“I'm glad to see you unharmed,” she says.

He laughs, surprised. “That's my line.” His hand slides down her arm to thread their fingers together. He turns towards his knights. “Good work, Elyan. How did the scouting tour go? Did you find out anything useful about Sarrum's army?”

“You sent scouting parties like I suggested?” Gwen's somewhat surprised; Arthur isn't usually one to do a lot of scouting ahead, if it risks wasting his best knights' time like this.

“A good king always does what his queen tells him.” At her skeptical look, he amends, “Well, alright, Merlin convinced me to do it. I was going to just trust what you'd written, but he insisted we check. Always such a worrywart, that one.”

Gwen has to smile. Yes, that does sound quite like Merlin.

Elyan hops down from his horse and hands the reins to a stable boy. “We did find something out, sire. But I'd like to make my report in your counsel room, so that everyone can hear it. You're not going to want to miss this one.”

 

 

 

“They have recruited _what_?”

“Sorcerers,” Elyan repeats calmly. “At least a dozen of them, from what I've heard, some coming in from Essetir or other kingdoms.”

For a moment, Arthur is perfectly silent, and the rest of his knights and counsellors are holding their breath with him; if one of Gwen's hair pins dropped now, everyone would hear it. She kind of wants to drop one, actually, just to break the silence. Here she was, believing Morgana to be their only magical threat right now, that making peace with her would somehow fix everything else. Damn it, she really has to start thinking like a queen again.

“That's impossible,” Arthur declares after an eternity. “Sarrum despises sorcery. He is more strict than my father was in that regard.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, Gwen sees Merlin wince; she's overcome with sympathy. Merlin had never liked the late king and his policies on magic, and now that Gwen has come a bit closer to understanding what a life of self-loathing and shame has done to Morgana, she finds that she herself has lost what little love she had left for Uther.

“That's what we thought, as well,” Elyan confirms. “But that doesn't seem to stop him from using it to further his goal. Which seems to be subjugating Camelot.”

A murmur goes through the room; put bluntly like this, the threat feels a lot more real.

“Can you make an estimate about the skill level of these sorcerers?” Arthur asks.

“It's hard to tell, as we did not see them train or otherwise show their abilities. They might not be very powerful.” Elyan doesn't say anything else, but the alternative is there for anyone to hear. _Or maybe Sarrum has just netted himself twelve great wizards who could tear down the city walls in an instant._

Arthur presses his fingers together, otherwise keeping a perfectly calm and collected exterior. Even when facing these kinds of unknown, he stays the fearless leader he's always been, and Gwen admires him for it.

“Thank you for your report, Sir Elyan,” he says. “It's been of great help. We will start discussing possible strategies tomorrow at dawn.”

“May I speak freely, sire?”

“Of course.”

Elyan takes a deep breath, and Gwen feels a surge of pride for her brother standing like that before the king and giving his opinion. They've come a long way, all of them. “Sarrum is very clearly preparing for war against Camelot. The citadel's defences are good, but not infallible, and inviting him for peace talks will leave us vulnerable to his attack. It might be wise to ride out and meet his army with our own.”

Clearly, he's not the only one to think that; there are a few nods of agreement around the room. As it is so often the case, Gwen is struck by the sudden awareness that all of these men would gladly go to war if their king told them to, and if they died, they would not blame him for it. It's a responsibility she never forgets but tries not to think about – it would cloud her judgement far too much, and her king needs a queen with a clear head at his side.

For a moment, Arthur considers Elyan's words. He glances at Gwen, who tries to nod in an encouraging way, then at Merlin, whose face betrays nothing.

“I hear your concerns,” he says eventually, “and I would be wrong to dismiss them. However, we have invited Sarrum for peaceful negotiations. If he wants a war, he shall have it, but he'll have to declare it himself. We will act only in self-defence. I hope he will come to understand that.”

With that, Arthur extends his arm to Gwen; she takes it and strides out of the room with him, still a bit uncomfortable in the long, heavy dress she's not used to wearing anymore.

On her way out, she catches the look on Merlin's face who doesn't go to follow them, but heads for Gaius' quarters instead. It's stone-cold determination. And somehow that scares her more than anything that Elyan has said about Sarrum's sorcerers.

 

 

 

“So tell me, Guinevere,” Arthur says that night over supper. “How on earth did you manage to escape from Morgana? It must have been very hard to come back all the way to Camelot yourself.”

Gwen almost chokes on the piece of carrot she's been eating; Merlin quickly pours some more water into her goblet.

“I didn't _escape_ from her,” she says once the carrot is out of her airways and in her stomach where it belongs. “I just – left.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows and exchanges a quick look with Merlin. “Did you … achieve whatever it was you wanted?”

It seems that eating and talking about Morgana are two things Gwen won't be able to do at once. She sets down her cutlery and takes a long sip from her water goblet, just to buy some more time to think about what the hell she is going to reply to that.

It feels impossible, somehow, to put everything that has happened into words. No, not only impossible – it feels wrong. She still doesn't know the reason why she acted the way she did, can't begin to explain the journey they went on, the things she's learned about her friend and herself – the way Morgana is still able to laugh, and smile, and _care_ about dragons and villagers and druids and _Gwen_ , even though everything and everyone in this world has taught her not to. The feeling of freedom that came with all of it. The violets from the crown that are still threaded through Gwen's hair.

“We're not enemies, she and I,” she finally says, voice thick with everything left unspoken.

Arthur sets down his knife as well. “Where is she now?”

Gwen has dreaded this question because there is only one possible answer. “That I cannot,” she pauses, then presses on with more force, “and _will_ not tell you. But please, Arthur,” and here she looks at him, looks right into his shocked face, “you must believe me when I say that no harm will come from her.”

Arthur opens his mouth like he wants to protest, but Merlin's hand on his arm stills him. _Trust your queen's judgment, will you?_

Gwen shoots him a grateful smile; Merlin answers in kind, and she wonders why he understands these unsaid things so well.

Arthur swallows hard, then folds his hands in front of him. His eyes are on Gwen's, searching; she simply looks back. She has nothing to hide.

“If you say so,” he begins, haltingly, “then I believe you.”

She extends a hand and covers his fingers with hers. “Thank you, Arthur.”

 

 

 

The strategic discussions on the next day don't lead anywhere. Neither do the ones on the day after that. More patrols are coming back, all of them with new evidence that Sarrum is indeed recruiting sorcerers in secret. Gwaine is persuaded he saw someone lift a rock that was twice his size and hurl it over a few treetops; Gwen would have liked to dismiss it as just Gwaine being Gwaine, except that Leon was there as well and, heaven forbid, is actually backing him up on it.

Throughout the conferences, Gwen can't help glancing at Merlin every now and then. He looks like a statue, standing motionless at Arthur's shoulder; usually he would lean down at least twice to whisper advice into the king's ear, and twice more to make a humorous comment for the queen's entertainment. Gwen has hardly heard him say a word ever since he welcomed her back with a somewhat strained smile and a short report of everything that happened during her absence (which, according to him, wasn't much really).

She catches him with a hand on his arm outside in the corridor, when the rest of the council has dispersed already.

“Is everything alright, Merlin?”

He doesn't quite look at her. “I'm fine. Just a bit tired.”

“Is Arthur working you too hard?” She really needs to have a word with him about Merlin's workload; sometimes she feels he has enough tasks for three men rather than one.

Merlin shakes his head dismissively. “No, it's not – it's just a lot right now, is all.”

She waits for a few moments, but there doesn't seem to be anything else coming. “Well, if there's anything I can do for you …”

“Actually – ” He clamps his mouth shut, then looks around the corridor like he's said something terrible.

“What? You know I'm your friend, Merlin.” She tries for an easy smile. “You can trust me.”

Merlin stares at her for a moment, like she's just said something particularly strange. “It's – about Morgana.”

“Well?” Gwen prompts; Merlin needs an unusually long time to collect his thoughts.

“She's a sorceress, Gwen,” he says, surveying her intently. “After all she's done – all the lies, all the deaths – how can you possibly trust her?”

And there it is, the question she's been asking herself over and over again. The thing is, trusting her wasn't even very difficult. On the contrary, after seeing Aithusa, after drinking her sleeping potion that first evening, it was laughably easy – partly because she desperately wanted to. But she doubts Merlin would understand that any better than herself.

“I have no idea. It's as strange for me as it is for you.” And then, because she might know where this is going, “You must think me enchanted.”

Merlin's eyes are still fixed on hers, and even though she meets his gaze like the queen she is, she's starting to feel uncomfortable. She didn't know he could look so scrutinising, so calculating, as if he were peeling back layer after layer of her while offering nothing in return. Briefly, she wonders how much she actually knows of him. How much he might have changed since they first met.

“No,” he says, and it sounds honest, as far as Gwen can tell. “I don't think that, actually. It's just – she's tried to kill Arthur so many times.”

“She was kind to me.”

It's not exactly an excuse, or even any kind of argument, but nonetheless Merlin considers it. He's still searching her face, and whatever he finds, it must convince him of something, because he relaxes just a little bit and clears his throat.

“Alright. Alright then. Did you – well, I mean, did she – has she ever used magic around you?”

Well, that comes out of nowhere. “Sometimes, yes. It was useful for starting a fire or cooking a stew,” she adds, half in jest.

Merlin nods like that answer makes sense. “Were you scared?”

Gwen considers this. “Not really. I knew what she could do – knew she could have killed me on the spot if she wanted. But she'd proven that she wouldn't, and I had faith in that. To be honest, I felt quite – safe.”

Belatedly, she realises that this kind of talk about magic might be considered close to treason in Camelot, but Merlin doesn't seem to care.

“So – you don't think that magic made her – evil?”

There's gravity in his voice, and something fragile. Something like hope.

“No,” Gwen says firmly.

Merlin nods again. “Yes. Alright. That's – thank you. That's all I wanted to know. Your Highness.”

And then he's off into a corridor, leaving Gwen to wonder what kind of plan she has just inadvertently helped hatching.

 

 

 

She and Arthur are just getting ready for bed (or at least, she is getting ready for bed while Arthur's still busy complaining about the fruitless discussions of strategy) when there's a knock on their door. When Gwen goes to open it, Merlin is standing right there, face ashy and set in stone, with his hands behind his back.

“You look terrible,” she can't help but say.

Arthur is at the door in an instant. “Merlin! Since when do you knock? The world must be ending.”

Incredibly enough, Merlin completely ignores him to ask Gwen, “Could I speak to the king for a moment?”

“Of course,” Arthur starts off, “we'll go talk in your – ”

“ _Here_? If possible?”

He's still only addressing Gwen, a silent plea in his eyes. She has never seen him like this, and it can't be a good thing.

“Sure, Merlin,” she says, grabbing a coat and stepping into the corridor. “Whatever you need. I'll come back in …?”

“You really don't need to go far,” Merlin says quickly, and Gwen hears what he doesn't say.

“I'll wait right outside the door then,” she hazards. The relief on his face is evident, but it does nothing to calm her own worries. What could possibly make Merlin feel so unsafe with Arthur that he'd want Gwen to stay nearby?

Arthur seems to be just as worried, if not about the exact same things. “What is it?” he snaps, still frustrated and impatient from the discussions, but the hand on Merlin's shoulder leading him into the room is gentle. Gwen has seen him be more friendly, more tactile with his servant these last few days; she hopes it'll work in Merlin's favour now.

The door swings shut behind them. Gwen forces herself not to eavesdrop.

For a while, there's absolutely nothing.

Then the door opens, Merlin walks out, and Gwen knows immediately that everything has gone horribly wrong.

She walks into her and Arthur's chambers without even pausing. “Arthur Pendragon, what on earth did you do?”

Arthur looks up from where he's sitting at the table. His eyes are completely empty, his face closed off; only his shaking hands betray him.

“Merlin has magic.”

And just like that, everything makes sense.

“What did he – ”

“He offered me his service in defending Camelot against Sarrum's sorcerers,” Arthur continues in a toneless voice. It sounds absolutely wrong on him.

Gwen swallows and repeats, in barely more than a whisper, “What did you do?”

“I banished him.”

 _Banished_. Well, that's slightly better than _sentenced to death_. But only slightly.

Gwen would be lying if she said she doesn't understand Arthur's distress, because of course she does. Merlin's her friend, too, and she would have liked to think he could have trusted them with this. At the same time, she knows how difficult it was for Morgana to be surrounded by hatred of something that's naturally a part of her, how quickly she learnt to hide it, and how thoroughly it destroyed her. Those secretive habits must be hard to break.

Still, Arthur – Arthur isn't just Merlin's friend. There's something there, something that doesn't have any words and doesn't need any, that makes Arthur confide in him like he never quite confides in Gwen, makes the two of them work together like wheels on the same cart. And now it seems Merlin has broken the axis.

So yes, she gets it, but that's not what's important right now. What's important is that in little more than two weeks, Sarrum will be in Camelot to either negotiate peace or declare war, there are sorcerers of unknown power in his army, and Arthur has just banished their one viable hope for victory.

Merlin. Who has magic. Enough magic to face a dozen of them, it seems.

_Think like a queen._

In the end, the choice isn't really one at all. Arthur has his knights, Leon, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine; he has Gaius; he has counsellors.

Merlin, right now, has no one.

Gwen is out of her chair within a second, heads for her closet and changes into the tunic and trousers she wore while travelling with Morgana. She grabs the bag she had with her, as well; it's still full of supplies. Finally, she throws on her cloak and wrenches the door open.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks, his mask slipping for just a moment, and oh, he sounds so tired and alone and heartbroken that Gwen almost doesn't leave.

Almost.

“I'm saving our kingdom,” she says, and then she's gone.

 

 

 

She finds Merlin in his quarters, bag already packed. Without any words, she runs over to him and wraps her arms around him tightly.

“You really have the worst timing, you big oaf,” she says into his shoulder, and feels more than hears his breath hitch. “I'm coming with you.”

“What?”

“We're staying in the Darkling woods for a while, to think of a plan there. You weren't really going to leave, were you?”

She releases him, and only now sees his face. He's been crying, if his eyes are any indication, but his expression is one of resolve.

“You can't, Gwen,” he says gravely. “You have to stay.”

Gwen smiles at him. “I'm the queen. You don't get to tell me what to do.”

“But you're needed here – ”

“So are you, and yet here we are. I'm not letting Sarrum's sorcerers take over Camelot just because her king is a stubborn ass.”

Tentatively, Merlin smiles back. “Neither am I.”

They say their goodbyes to Gaius, then head out through one of the many secret passages that lead out of the citadel. It's night outside, and even though there are guards at every corner, nobody stops them. Gwen suspects that Merlin's magic may have something to do with that.

Merlin is silent all of the way.

They set up camp in the mouth of a small cave, not far from where Gwen, Kara and Morgana parted ways (and yes, that may have been Gwen's intentional choice, what of it). As soon as they've got a fire going, Merlin sinks down against the stone wall like he's just run a mile.

“You still look terrible,” Gwen says with as much warmth and tenderness as she can muster.

“Must be the new haircut.” Merlin smiles, mostly for show, and stares into the fire. “It's changed you, your time with Morgana, hasn't it?”

“I guess I've understood a few things. About magic. About her.” _About me._

He pulls his feet up to his chest and crosses his arms over them, as if trying to hide from what he's about to say.

“I was ready to kill her, you know. To do whatever it takes to protect – Camelot. From her.”

The admission surprises Gwen less than it should. She can't imagine how many lives Merlin has taken already, and she doesn't want to dwell on it; it must be a lot. Someday, maybe, they can have this talk, but for now all she needs to know is his loyalty to Arthur, and that she doesn't doubt. “Well, I won't let you.”

“Oh, I don't want to. It's nicer to hope.” He shrugs, a bit helplessly. “I've just forgotten how to.”

“Well, good thing you still have me.”

There's a long silence, and Gwen almost thinks he's fallen asleep, when:

“Do you think he'll forgive me?”

Gwen sits down next to him and places a hand on his shoulder; he leans into it a little too much.

 

 

 

Gwen wakes the next morning to soft fingers on her cheek and a familiar face framed in wild, dark hair. It takes her an embarrassingly long moment to place it.

“Sleep well?” Morgana says.

Gwen sits up in confusion, then rubs her eyes and takes the hand extended to help her stand up. “You're very good at finding people.”

The witch grins. “It's not difficult if they have my magic braided in their hair.” She gestures at the violets, still as fresh as on the day she conjured them, and well, Gwen hasn't really seen a reason to take them out, so why would she now? “Anyway, I'm surprised you're back so soon. It's only been three days; you really must have missed – ”

She trails off, looking at something behind Gwen's shoulder. Gwen twists her head; Merlin's waking up.

Right, Merlin. Who has _magic_.

Seeing her friend again has almost made her forget about that mess.

“Morgana, I can explain – ”

“What is he doing here?” Morgana hisses, stumbling back out of the cave, eyes suddenly wide with fear and anger. Gwen places a calming hand on her arm.

“Sarrum is recruiting sorcerers to fight against Camelot. We're trying to find a way to stop him.”

“What does that have to do with _him_?”

Helplessly, Gwen looks over at Merlin, who has jumped to his feet and seems very overwhelmed by the situation himself.

“Morgana, I – ” He stops himself, sighs deeply, then extends a hand and murmurs a few foreign words. A blue flame lights up in his palm.

Morgana tenses up under Gwen's hand. She doesn't move at all, just stares at Merlin in surprise and disbelief and – fury.

Yes, definitely fury.

“You,” she whispers, voice cracking like an incoming storm, “you have magic – you've had magic _all this time_ – and you never told me – ”

“I couldn't – ”

“You let me think I was alone!” Morgana screams. “You poisoned me – you let me suffer, you would have let me die, all the while you could have done something – _anything_ – ”

The leaves and rocks on the ground are trembling, as if wind were picking them up, and the air is filled with the humming that comes right before a strike of lightning. Gwen understands only half of what's going on, but she feels it, and Merlin's face tells her he feels it too – Morgana is losing control.

“Morgana!” she calls. All of her instincts are screaming at her to run and take cover, but she ignores them and places both of her hands on Morgana's shoulders.

“Get away from me!” The witch's eyes are glowing a bright gold, almost white in the sunlight.

“Calm down! You're not going to hurt him.”

“I might hurt _you_ if you don't _get away_!”

“No,” Gwen says with utter conviction. “You won't.”

The light in Morgana's eyes dims abruptly. The leaves and the pebbles settle on the ground again, and the air returns to its normal state.

“Of course I won't,” Morgana whispers.

She closes her eyes to take a few deep breaths, and her face smoothes out into a mask of vague annoyance. “Don't expect me to be nice to you,” she throws in Merlin's direction.

Merlin raises his hands. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

There's a rustling in the bushes nearby, and a white dragon's head pokes around the cave entrance.

“Aithusa!” Gwen exclaims. She walks over and pets her snout, glad to have someone interrupt this confrontation; she hasn't taken Merlin's terrible track record into account.

“Aithusa,” he repeats numbly. “Of course.”

The dragon's eyes narrow in on him. She flares her nostrils, growling.

Gwen looks back and forth between them. “Do you … know each other?”

“I, uh, may have hatched her egg and – ”

Aithusa opens her mouth and spits out a warning stream of fire at Merlin, who jumps back just at the right moment.

Morgana stares at the exchange. “I had no idea she could do that.”

“Merlin,” Gwen says, slowly, “what on earth did you do?”

 

 

 

Luckily, no one else with a grudge for Merlin shows up, and they're left to their own devices. For some unfathomable reason, Morgana decides to stay with them, even though she insists on glaring daggers at Merlin on every occasion and always sleeps close to Gwen, as though he might drag her back to the castle any moment.

“Weren't you going to stay with the druids?” Gwen asks on their third evening together.

“Gwen!” Morgana says with mock affront. “I thought you _liked_ my company.”

Gwen just raises an eyebrow.

“Alright, don't look at me like that. I did stay with the druids for two days, but then I sensed you coming here, and I figured, the druids can wait. They didn't mind it either way.”

“So … ” Gwen trails off hopefully. “Does that mean you're going to help us?”

Morgana sighs. “I told you, Gwen. I'm not fighting for Arthur.”

“But you might fight against Sarrum.”

There's a long pause in which Morgana probably imagines the many painful ways she could take revenge on her torturer.

“I'll think about it,” she concedes.

Meanwhile, Merlin is already out cold. In fact, he has fallen asleep very early in the evenings, exhausted from a full day of not eating very much and combing his spellbook for useful enchantments.

“I'm raising some protections around the castle,” he explains one afternoon at Gwen's request. “There's spells to reinforce walls, seal off entrances, things like that – those are easy – but then I've found some more subtle enchantments, here – ” he points at a page in his book; it's covered in symbols Gwen has never seen in her life – “this one makes an enemy forget where they were going, or that one can turn people invisible for a short time, and this one weakens other sorcerer's influence, and – well. They get complicated – takes me a while to cast them right.”

Gwen nods. “That's impressive.”

He looks up from the page, blinking. “Is it?”

“Well, Morgana works more with potions than spells, so I don't have much comparison, but – ” She grins at him. “Consider your queen impressed.”

Merlin mirrors her grin easily. It's good to see him smile; he hasn't done it often lately. “I live to please, your Highness.”

“Your Highness is so pleased, in fact,” Gwen continues, digging an apple and a few dry crackers out of her bag, “that you've earned yourself a break. Royal orders.”

Merlin looks like he's going to protest. Luckily, he remembers his place.

“You know,” he muses while they're munching on their food, “it's really nice to have someone appreciate what I do for a change. Not that that's what i'm doing it for, obviously, but – it's just, it's nice.”

Gwen squeezes his knee. “I always appreciate what you do, Merlin.”

“Yes, well – thank you. Thanks for being here. With me.” He swallows. “You're a great queen, Gwen, and an even better friend.”

She smiles at him. “That means a lot. I'm doing my best, you know.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, with a glance at Morgana who has just come back from a walk through the forest and is already glaring back at him. “I think we all are.”

 

 

 

Five days after fleeing the castle with Merlin, Gwen doesn't run into Arthur, like she had hoped or feared she might.

She runs into Elyan.

“What are you doing here?” she exclaims, halfway into her stern, motherly voice, in case he's here to take her back to the citadel or chase Merlin out of Camelot for good.

He holds up his hands. “I was looking for you.”

“I'm staying here, Elyan.”

“Yeah, yeah – don't worry, the king doesn't know about this. I mean, he probably does,” Elyan amends, “but I didn't come on his behalf. I just missed my sister.”

The grin he cracks has Gwen melt instantly. Only now does she notice that he isn't in his usual knight's attire, but in regular clothes, with only a sword at his side.

“Then my brother is welcome here. After,” she adds, “he's helped me lay out snares for our dinner, that is.”

Elyan is an expert at surviving in the wild with few supplies, so on top of setting up some traps for rabbits, he helps her pick berries, finds her a few thick, edible leaves he claims taste like carrots, and digs up some sweet white roots she's never even seen before.

“Merlin likes to use those in his stews,” he explains to her on their way to the cave, “but he's rubbish at finding them, so whenever we set up camp somewhere, it's usually Leon and me who get saddled with looking for something edible. Even though, honestly, Leon's even more of a hopeless case than Merlin, he can't even tell a blueberry from _oh God_ , Gwen, is that a _dragon_?”

He has already dropped his bag on the ground and drawn his sword halfway, pulling Gwen behind him. Aithusa's head swivels around to look at them curiously. Her eyes are giant and watery as ever, but her nostrils aren't as sore as when Gwen first saw her, and she's less curled in on herself, more confident. Gwen realises she looks downright healthy, and she wonders whether that's because of the game in Ealdor's woods, or the constant flying, or something else altogether.

She coughs sheepishly, pushing her brother's arm aside. “Maybe I should have warned you. Elyan, this is Aithusa. She's with us.”

Elyan looks at her, then at the dragon, and back at her again. There's room for nothing but bewilderment on his face, but he does sheathe his sword. “With you – Gwen, how on _earth_ – ”

“Oh, Gwen, you're back? Great, you can help me with – ”

Morgana breaks off when she realises that Gwen is not alone, and now Elyan has someone else to stare at. Well, Gwen thinks, at least he hasn't drawn his sword again.

“You tried to kill me,” he says bluntly.

“Who haven't I tried to kill?” Morgana shrugs in a way that is meant to look dismissive, but Gwen can see how uncomfortable she is. “I'm not going to harm you, if that's what you worried about. Your sister's been rather insistent I leave her friends alone.”

Elyan raises his eyebrows. “She _listens_ to you?” he says to Gwen; it sounds like an accusation.

“ _She_ is standing right here!”

“Morgana says the truth.”

And there it is, the hand at the hilt of the sword. “I don't like this. You shouldn't be with her alone.”

Gwen crosses her arms, suddenly defensive. Partly because she knows that two months ago, she would have agreed with him; partly because now, she definitely doesn't. “Well, luckily I am queen and not you. You're a guest here, and you'll have to accept things the way they are.”

Elyan's eyes flit between them, at a complete loss. They finally settle on Aithusa when the dragon gives a low growl. She takes a few slow steps towards Elyan until they're almost snout to nose; Gwen has to give her brother credit for not backing down. She's not particularly worried that Aithusa will harm him, but Elyan can't know that.

After an excruciatingly long moment of sizing each other up, Aithusa bumps her head forward and pushes Elyan into the grass.

“Ow! What was that for?”

And of course, like the fool he is, Elyan pushes her right back.

Aithusa blinks a few times in obvious confusion, then bares her teeth at him. Gwen could swear she's smirking; she looks exactly like Morgana in that moment. She brings her tail around to swing at Elyan, who scrambles to his feet, jumps over it and falls into a fighting stance.

Gwen clears her throat and picks up Elyan's forgotten bag of supplies. “We'll just leave you to it, then?”

“The dragon is _attacking_ me!”

“The dragon has a name, Elyan. And really, she just wants to play.”

Aithusa flaps her wings in agreement. Morgana glares at her. “How you pick your loyalties, I'll never understand.”

“She picked you first,” Gwen deadpans. Morgana rolls her eyes, but there's a smile tugging at her lips. “You wanted my help with something?”

They leave Elyan and Aithusa to their sparring and settle down in the mouth of their cave. Merlin is sitting cross-legged a few feet away, book on his lap and several objects laid out around him; Gwen guesses it's for another protective spell.

Morgana follows her eyes. “What an amateur,” she scoffs. “Power like nothing I've ever seen before, yet the experience of a barely-hatched chicken.”

“He probably didn't have a teacher for any of this.” _Save for Gaius_ , Gwen amends, remembering how unsurprised the old man had been at the reveal of Merlin's magic. Gaius – another person who had the chance to help Morgana all these years ago and chose not to. She bites on her lip. “Are you alright with him being here?”

Morgana stares at him some more, then looks at the ground. “I have no idea. Nothing feels real anymore – so much history. It all blends together.” She chuckles to herself. “To be fair, I've lost count over who tried to kill the other more often. Fairly sure he started it, though.”

“You said something about poison,” Gwen ventures.

“Yes, well.” Her expression grows pensive. “That was a long time ago.”

“We can go somewhere else, if you don't feel comfortable – ”

Morgana looks at her then, amusement on her face. “Very sweet of you to worry about my _comfort_ , Gwen, but I'll manage.”

“I'm serious!”

“So am I. Really, it's … it feels a bit like old times, doesn't it?”

Gwen smiles at that. “So this is your idea of nostalgia?”

“Don't pretend you weren't thinking the same thing when you were dragging me to Ealdor.”

“Right. Only one missing is Arthur.”

“Oh, don't talk to me about _Arthur_.”

Gwen swallows, suddenly serious again. “I don't, do I?”

Morgana regards her for a long while. “No. You really don't.”

It turns out all Morgana wanted help for was brushing her hair, since the tangles were getting rather unmanageable out here in the woods and magical untangling had never been her strength (“A witch with unkempt hair just looks that much more intimidating, don't you agree, Gwen?”), and soon enough all four of them plus Aithusa are huddled around a fire right outside the cave. Merlin is clearly happy to see Elyan – he manages a tired, but genuine smile, as far as Gwen can tell. He doesn't dare ask about Arthur, though Gwen knows he wants to; his face closes off completely anytime Elyan mentions the king in passing, and Elyan's tactful enough to pick up on that. How Merlin truly feels about all that's happened, Gwen does not know – she can only guess that there must be anger, and hurt, and a lot of loneliness. And yet, Merlin continues to push himself every day in order to keep them all safe – Camelot, his friends, his king. What inspires this kind of devotion, Gwen does not know, either, but she's glad it's there.

She likes to imagine that that evening, Morgana doesn't glare at Merlin quite as much as usual.

 

 

 

First it's only Elyan visiting. Then it's Elyan and Gwaine. Then, Elyan, Gwaine and Percival.

When Elyan arrives with Gwaine, Percival and Mordred in tow, Gwen feels like she has to put her foot down.

“Alright. I know you all just really want to spar with a dragon, but Sarrum will arrive in Camelot tomorrow and God help me, if I find out any of you sneaks away during the treaty negotiations to fight Aithusa, I will have you executed for treason. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, your Highness,” Percival says from underneath one of Aithusa's paws.

“It's not just for fun, your Highness,” Elyan adds while dodging a swing from her tail. “It's tactical training. Sarrum's sorcerers might have summoned magical creatures.”

“Yep,” Gwaine agrees, narrowly avoiding a stream of fire. “Very likely scenario, your Highness.”

Mordred says nothing, but that might be because he has just received a wing to the face.

All in all, though, Gwen is glad that the knights have come to see them. Especially Gwaine has done wonders for Merlin's mood, but Percival and Elyan are making an effort, as well, joking around and ruffling his hair and generally treating him no different than before. They joke with her, too, more than they used to; she wonders whether it's the absence of a dress, or the absence of a crown, or maybe the absence of their king.

Most surprisingly, considering their history, they all take quite well to Morgana. After his initial distrust, Elyan warms up to her when he sees how friendly she is around Gwen, mending rips in their tunics with her magic and always cleaning their dishes at the river nearby. Percival is a bit more reserved, possibly because of the snakes; he does compliment her stew one day (even though Gwen privately thinks Morgana should stick to baking rather than cooking). Gwaine, in his usual manner, starts to flirt with her immediately; of course, she ignores him, which pleases Gwen more than she likes to admit. And Mordred – well, Mordred tries to kiss her hand, but Morgana thwarts his plans and draws him into a tight embrace instead that reminds Gwen of herself and her brother. She remembers Morgana's bond to the young druid boy all those years ago; it looks like this, too, has survived the test of time.

“Well,” she says, trying to suppress her amusement and fondness for each of the knights in front of her, “if you're quite finished playing, boys, Merlin says dinner's ready.”

Predictably, this is enough to get them back to their campsite. Gwaine flops down on the ground into a sort of half-sprawl at Merlin's feet; Percival climbs over him to sit next to his head while Mordred and Elyan take a seat on either side of Gwen. She notices with no small amount of dismay that Morgana is nowhere to be seen.

It's strange, and not because Morgana wouldn't wander off alone at night, because she definitely does, but because she knows this is Gwen's last evening in the Darkling woods. Gwen and Merlin have agreed that she and Arthur need to present a united front for the treaty negotiations, however much of a farce they may turn out to be, and thus they will be returning to the castle with the knights – Gwen to meet with the king, Merlin to hide in Gaius' chambers for whenever he will be needed. Gwen had simply assumed that Morgana would at least want to wish her good luck or something like that; the witch's absence almost makes her fidget.

Almost. Because fidgeting would be a very un-queenly thing to do, after all.

She doesn't really notice that they've all started eating until Gwaine makes an obscene sound and sinks even further onto the cave floor.

“God, Merlin, that's fantastic. You wouldn't happen to have a tankard of mead to go with that, would you?”

Merlin just raises an eyebrow.

“Ah, pity.” Gwaine sighs. “Could really use a drink right about now. That dragon has the most terrific endurance.”

Elyan snorts into his bowl. “You mean, almost like it's magic?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You should have seen her in the air,” Gwen comments. “Carried three people all the way to the forest of Balor.”

“What were you doing in the – ” Elyan cuts himself off. “Three people?”

Of course, they don't know. Gwen still hasn't talked a lot about her and Morgana's adventures, if that's what she can call them. “Daegal, the boy who delivered the message to Camelot – ”

“The one whose camp was raided by Camelot knights?” Mordred cuts in suddenly.

“Yes, exactly. He had a druid friend with him, but she was badly injured, so Morgana and I offered to bring her to a magical source for healing – ” She trails off, realising how strange it sounds in retrospect, even though it happened not even three weeks ago. “Anyway, Aithusa carried all of us. She didn't even stop for a break that day.”

“What was her name?” Mordred asks. “The druid's, I mean.”

Briefly, Gwen wonders whether revealing her name might have any unforeseen consequences. Could Mordred recognise her as someone he holds a grudge against? Do druids hold grudges? The young knight has been nothing but kind and eager, if a bit reserved; he doesn't seem like the type for resentment.

“Kara. Her name's Kara.”

Surprise washes over Mordred's features then, followed by something like hope. “Kara? What'd she look like?”

“Brown hair, blue eyes, fair skin. Very beautiful.” Gwen thinks for a second. “Very proud, too. Always a bit of a disapproving look on her face.”

That gets a laugh out of Mordred. “It does sound like her.”

“Do you know that girl?” Elyan wants to know, and Mordred ducks his head to hide a smile, lost in a fond memory. No grudge there then.

“Oh, it's nothing. She's an old childhood friend of mine. Haven't seen her in a while.”

As was expected, there's a low wolf whistle from Gwaine. “'Childhood friend', eh?”

“I'm sure she'd be delighted to meet you,” Gwen says while resolutely ignoring him.

“That would – I'd like that, your Highness.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“You're coming back with us today, your Highness, aren't you?” Gwaine asks while stretching like a cat and almost whacking Merlin in the face.

Gwen resists the impulse to check the trees around them for signs of the witch just once more. “I am.”

“Ah, great. Arthur's been intolerable. Worse than usual, I mean,” he adds with a wink. Behind him, Merlin tenses visibly. Gwen tries to catch his eye, but his face has closed off.

Elyan nods in agreement. “He's been brooding a lot; this whole situation is really weighing on him. It'll be good to have you back.”

Gwen bites her lip. “I'm not sure I'll be able to help all of that, but I'll do what I can. At least, I'm certain he knows that he has our support.” She glances at Merlin once more. “All of it.”

Gwaine grunts. “Obviously. He's good at that whole inspiring-loyalty-thing. It's quite terrible, really; makes it impossible to abandon him even if you want to.”

“You're being treasonous again,” Percival says mildly.

The conversation trickles on, and Gwen has trouble not tuning it out completely in favour of worrying over Morgana. They finish their meal without any sign of her showing up, and before she knows it, it's time for them to go.

For a moment, Gwen considers stalling for more time – pretend she lost something at the campsite, maybe feign an injury – but her duty to Camelot prevents her from it. There is no way around it – she has to get back to the castle, with or without seeing Morgana once more.

Still, going home should not feel quite that difficult.

 

 

 

“I think we should get ourselves a dragon. What d'you say?”

“You can't just _get_ a dragon, Gwaine.”

“It's the Camelot crest! It's on our cloaks, for crying out loud! If anyone should have a dragon, it's us.”

“I really don't think that's how it works.”

“Aw, come on, Mordred – Elyan – Percival, you have to agree with me!”

“ – ”

“Wow. So that's how it is. Great friends you are, knightly brotherhood _my ass_ – ”

“ _Gwen_!”

Gwen freezes in her tracks. The knights' banter, the crunching of their footsteps, the rustle of the leaves in the night breeze, it all fades into a background hum at the sound of her name in that voice. She can't see very far in the dark, but it doesn't take long at all to make out the familiar silhouette between the trees.

“I'll be right back,” she tells Elyan, already halfway gone.

Morgana is right there, in the long green cloak and simple blue robes she's borrowed from the druids; she blends into the forest around her, save for her face and bright eyes. She stops walking only when she's right in front of Gwen, slightly out of breath. Stray strands of hair have slipped out from under her hood, but she doesn't bother tucking them back.

“I've been looking for you,” she says; it comes out as a whisper.

Gwen has trouble putting her relief at seeing her into words, so she doesn't even try. “Where have you been all day?”

Instead of answering, Morgana reaches into her cloak and takes out a small pouch of cloth on a string. She slips the string over Gwen's head around her neck, then grasps Gwen's hands in hers and closes them around the pouch; it faintly smells of lavender, and violets.

“Morgana, what – ”

“This will protect you from spells and enchantments.” In an unusual display of embarrassment, she looks away and clears her throat. “Well, not _every_ spell or enchantment, obviously. But, I thought – if I'm not going to be there – well, I'm not going to let you – ”

She trails off and looks at Gwen helplessly. Gwen stares back at her.

It strikes her, then, that Morgana has never looked this alive. Her eyes are bright with emotion; there's a tempest in there, one that has been raging under her skin for a long time, making her fingers shake and her hair tangle and her breath come short, and Gwen is standing in the midst of it, on the verge of being swept up. Something loosens in her chest – a deep, blooming tenderness for the woman in front of her, for everything she was and is and has yet to be. And Gwen wants to be there, at every step of it.

She doesn't know if she can. She doesn't know anything anymore. But Morgana still has that living, helpless look on her face, so Gwen untangles their hands, gently cups Morgana's cheek, and kisses her.

It was meant to be – well, Gwen has no idea what it was meant to be; chaste, maybe, and simple, and final, and in the second that it takes Morgana to react, it is all of those things. But then the witch breathes against her lips and just _melts_ into her, snaking her wiry arms around Gwen's waist and dipping her head ever so slightly, and suddenly Gwen can't remember why she would ever want for this to stop. She draws back for just a moment, but Morgana chases her lips into a second kiss, and then a third and a fourth, until Gwen rests her forehead against hers and they stay like that for a while, breathing.

There are about a million things Gwen wants to say, and certainly a million more thoughts racing through her head. However, she knows not to make promises she can't keep.

“I will see you,” she says at last. “As soon as I can.”

Morgana laughs quietly; it sounds sad. “You _have_ seen me. There is not much more to it, I'm afraid.”

“It's more than enough to look at,” Gwen swallows, “for a lifetime.”

The arms around her waist slip away. “Please don't say that.”

“I mean it. I will find you, if you want me to. We will find each other.”

Morgana draws back, giving her hands one last squeeze. Gwen can tell she doesn't believe it, but she's trying.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. FROM THE DARKLING WOODS TO THE CASTLE OF CAMELOT

 

 

 

Sarrum of Amata has terribly bad breath.

Of course, as the queen, Gwen cannot let any of her disgust show on her face. He is a king, and their guest, and besides that people have bad breath for a variety of reasons and it has no bearing on their character or her judgment of it.

She knows all of this, yet it takes all of her efforts not to recoil from him every time he addresses her at the banquet.

Luckily, the rich smell of roasted meat and steaming vegetables fills almost the entire hall, and the numerous entertainers, bards and jugglers do wonders to take her mind off of their guest's odour. It seems that Arthur has spared no expense – probably less out of friendship and more out of a desire to give these already ill-fated negotiations the best possible chance at success. Indeed, he himself looks very conflicted about all of this; he's hardly talked to Gwen since she came back last night, features schooled into the same carefully blank mask he's wearing now. Some guests would be put off by that, expecting joviality and rough laughter; luckily the Sarrum doesn't mind, or even notice Arthur's reservedness.

“I must say,” he muses, sipping on his wine, “I had my doubts upon hearing of your invitation. Uther has left you a great legacy in his war against sorcery. Some say you haven't always been able to uphold it.”

Arthur clears his throat. “I do my best to meet all threats to my kingdom with the force they deserve.”

“Let us hope that is enough.”

“You yourself have waged war on sorcery for a long time.” Gwen can only guess at what Arthur's internal struggle is right now, but she sees how hard he's gripping his goblet. “You must know a lot about its dangers.”

Sarrum laughs drily and curtly. “Everyone has a weakness.” The conspiratorial smirk on his face is faint; he's not one to brag too loudly. “Even a High Priestess of the Old religion.”

Gwen has expected a reference to Morgana sooner or later, so she just manages to stop herself from flinching.

Arthur's face doesn't show anything save for mild interest, but his hands are still tight around his cup. “So the rumours are true.”

“She was nothing to be feared once I found out what she truly cared for.” Sarrum's voice drops lower. “A young white dragon. I knew that she wouldn't dare to use magic against me while her beloved creature was at risk of harm; I kept her chained in a pit like an animal. It was more than she deserved.”

That, at last, gets a reaction out of Arthur; his glance flits over to Gwen, who finds it increasingly difficult to suppress the nausea rising in her stomach. He picks up his goblet and takes a long sip, swallowing hard. Gwen could swear she sees a slight tremor in his hands, but his voice is perfectly level. He raises an eyebrow.

“You are a harsh judge, Sarrum.”

Sarrum shakes his head in regret. “When it comes to sorcery, we must be merciless. I was not merciless enough. Morgana escaped – a lapse on my part. I will not be so foolish again.” He pauses, and the faint smirk stretches into something much more ferocious. “Not that her time with me was entirely wasted. As the dragon grew, the pit became too small, and gradually, the creature was crippled. Twisted. At night, you could hear its cries.” He takes another drink, almost gleeful now. “They were even more heart-breaking than Morgana's.”

Gwen is overcome with the intense desire to call on Aithusa – strong, kind-hearted, surviving Aithusa – and fly to Amata this instant, to rally her armies and burn down every inch of Sarrum's kingdom, to slaughter every last one of Sarrum's soldiers, to take a sword and run it through the man himself until it's drenched in his blood and his heart stops beating.

She's not entirely sure what to do with such hatred, so she settles for a sweet smile.

“That sounds like a punishment a sorcerer would come up with.”

Sarrum's eyes snap over to her, all of his self-satisfaction slipping from his face. “I have a kingdom to protect, my lady. As do you. I would imagine you know what it means to act in self-defence.”

“Exactly.” She pauses. “I also know what it means to act in unnecessary cruelty.”

Gwen glances at Arthur, then, expecting him to somehow stop her from criticising their guest too much, but he just seems grateful for her words.

“Necessity is a matter of perspective,” Sarrum is saying. “I find my methods to be very efficient. The same thing cannot be said about you, Arthur – if the rumours about your manservant are anything to go by.”

Gwen doesn't need to look, then, to know that Arthur freezes. If his voice was level before, it is now stone cold.

“The sorcerer has been caught and executed, in accordance to Camelot's laws,” he lies blatantly.

“Yes, after years and years of service in the royal household. Such a thing would not have happened under Uther. Simply executing him was incredibly lenient of you.”

It's an almost imperceptible movement, and Gwen only catches it because she knows him so well; she doubts Sarrum has noticed the line he has just crossed. Arthur shifts on his seat, squaring his shoulders and rising to his full height. His crown glints harshly in the candlelight.

“Really now,” he says, dangerously low. “What do you think I should have done?”

“Torture,” Sarrum answers as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Public, I would think. Make an example out of him. The kings of Camelot have never been the most creative when it comes to that, but that's why I'm here, after all.” He lifts his goblet. “If the treaty talks go well tomorrow, I might show you a few of my methods on the next sorcerer you catch.”

“I don't think you have to worry about the treaty talks very much,” Arthur says.

Sarrum laughs heartily then; a new wave of nauseating odour comes out of his mouth. “Oh, believe me, I don't.”

 

 

 

“We are not signing anything,” Gwen says as soon as they're in their quarters. “I know that you wish to create peace between the kingdoms, Arthur, but this cannot be the way. Sarrum only brings cruelty wherever he goes – ”

“Guinevere!” Arthur cuts her off, sharply. She falls silent as he sinks down into a chair and rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “You don't need to tell me that. I won't ally myself with that man.”

“Well. Good,” Gwen says, sitting down herself. “I wouldn't have let you anyway.”

In a very un-kingly gesture, Arthur groans into his hands. “How on earth did you manage to keep your cool? It was disgusting enough to hear him talk about Morgana, but when he started on – ”

He breaks off and leaves Gwen to stare at him.

Irrationally, she wishes Morgana were here. Not because she would know what to do, but at least she would know how to feel. More importantly, she'd have blasted Sarrum into pieces by now – and wouldn't that just solve all their problems?

“Arthur, I was glad I didn't have a sword in that moment. You on the other hand – you let nothing show.” She smiles at him in an effort to be encouraging. “I'm proud of you.”

“Don't be. I should throw him out right now. That a man could be so blind to his own cruelty …” He exhales slowly. “Then again, I'm not exactly one to talk, am I?”

Gwen bites her lip. They're skirting dangerously close to the subject of his former manservant, but maybe Arthur needs just that.

“I'll spare you the agony of asking and just tell you – Merlin is alright. Obviously, he isn't in Camelot at all,” she adds, because the law is still the law, “but the castle will be safe from attacks by sorcerers.”

A joyless laugh escapes him. “Of course it will be. That idiot can't follow a king's order to save his life.”

“That's one of his best traits,” Gwen smiles.

Arthur drags his hands across his face and folds them in front of him with a heavy sigh. Only now does Gwen notice the deep circles underneath his eyes, stark against his ashy skin. He looks like he hasn't slept in days – and maybe he hasn't. “He's lied to me, Guinevere. I trusted him with everything, while for years, he's kept the truth from me. What does it say about me that I still want nothing more than to have him back at my side?”

Gwen swallows and reaches over to squeeze his hands. “This isn't about his magic, is it?”

Arthur considers the question, and it's like the answer surprises him a little bit. “No. It's really not.”

“Then … it might be time for some things to change.”

 

 

 

The negotiations, if one wants to call them that, do not go well. Not only is Sarrum cruel, but also power-hungry and greedy to boot, unwilling to make a single concession or to reveal any of his true objectives. Gwen doesn't trust a word out of his mouth, and neither does Arthur. Around midday, they hold an informal tournament in the courtyard – an attempt at assessing each other's combat skills, thinly veiled as a sign of friendly rivalry – and Gwen is on the edge of her seat for all of it, waiting for a treacherous blade to slit Arthur's throat in something that can be disguised as an accident. When she glances around the audience during Gwaine's fight (which she doesn't need to watch that closely; Gwaine _always_ wins), she catches a deeply worried face amongst the servants that she's never seen before; yet, it's oddly familiar in a very vague way.

And then she wants to smack that servant upside the head because really, does Merlin not have _any_ sense of self-preservation?

Briefly, she considers telling Arthur about him, after the evening's talks have led to a treaty that is less one of peace and more one of wary armistice. Merlin's absence weighs heavily on him, more heavily than she could have imagined (and certainly more heavily than her own, if Arthur's poor health is anything to go by). Then again, revealing his presence now would probably just be a distraction – and a distracted king is the last thing they need right now.

“He's going to assassinate me, isn't he?” Arthur says that night after undressing.

Gwen clears her throat. “Well, I wouldn't say for certain – ”

“ _Guinevere_.”

“No, you're right, he really is.”

He sighs deeply, sinking down onto the bed. “You had the worst timing, you and Merlin. Two months ago, I would have signed the treaty without hesitation, just to protect Camelot from Morgana.”

Gwen lowers herself onto the other side of the mattress. “No harm will come from her now, I promised you that.”

“Yes, I believe you. You seem to have a truce with her, or whatever it is – and then it turns out my most trusted friend's a sorcerer, yet it looks like he's still on my side. And these past days, I've found myself wondering how many magical attacks there have been on Camelot lately that weren't directly caused by Morgana, and I cannot come up with many. Really, it's …”

She stays silent, waiting for him to go on.

“I've thought about it so many times, Gwen. Lifting the ban on magic – or at least, changing it. And every time, there has been something keeping me from it. Maybe … it might be time now, don't you think?”

Pride swells within Gwen then, pride that Arthur has arrived at this decision himself, even though she was absolutely ready to make good on the promise she gave Kara and Morgana back in the forest of Balor.

“It won't be easy,” she allows, because if Arthur insists on being the heart she will have to be the head. “There are a lot of people to be convinced. People who were previously convinced by your father.”

Arthur doesn't flinch when she mentions Uther, just frowns a little bit in serious consideration; it makes Gwen all the more proud. He truly has come a long way. “It might be time to change that, as well.” He balls his hands into fists. “I want a kingdom where everyone can be at peace, even those who practice magic, as long as they do no harm upon others. Surely this must be possible.”

“We will need new laws, new advisors, new ways to handle problems. It's a big step.”

“But you agree,” he presses, “that it's the right one?”

Gwen looks him right in the eye. “I am sure of it.”

 

 

 

Gwen isn't quite sure what exactly happened.

Arthur had just put his signature under the treaty, all of his knights half a step closer than usual and on high alert, when one of Sarrum's men stepped forward, threw a strange object on the ground, and everything just suddenly … stopped. Everything – except for Sarrum and his men, Arthur, Gwen, and the servant with the vaguely familiar face that had sneaked into the room along with them.

The very same servant that then pushed her out of the throne room, only yelling, “Run!” and slamming the doors shut.

And now she is running, under no illusions that if Arthur does die today, she needs to stay alive under any circumstance. In every corridor she comes across, the guards that should be patrolling are frozen to the spot – no doubt the work of that enchanted object. Sarrum must have brought all of his sorcerers into the castle for the negotiations, in order to get Arthur alone and defenceless. Gwen doesn't know why the freezing spell hasn't worked on her, but she suspects Morgana's poultice might have had a hand in that.

She pushes past the immobile guards into the counsel room, grabbing one of their swords on the way, and barricades the main doors. There are other ways to access this room and Sarrum's men probably know them, but if she went into their chambers or any other truly closed space she would be trapped immediately.

Sure enough, it isn't too long before she hears footsteps.

Sarrum strides into the counsel room, sword drawn, blood running from a gash on his head. Gwen straightens to her full height and squares her shoulders. It's been far too long since she's been in a fight, but she won't go down without one.

“Running from the king to go after the queen, Sarrum?” she taunts.

Sarrum smiles wryly, unharmed save for the wound on his hairline. “My sorcerers will deal with Arthur and his servant. I will not give him the satisfaction of dying an honourable death against me. You, on the other hand – after that banquet, I knew I'd have to run my sword through you myself.”

Gwen's heart is pounding in her ribcage, but she returns his smile. “Believe me, the feeling is mutual.”

As Sarrum lashes out, the wall behind him explodes into rubble.

Morgana is standing there, eyes golden in glorious fury. Sarrum whirls around but relaxes when he sees her.

“And the sorceress has joined us, too,” he says. “Tell me, how is your dragon?”

Morgana's hand is shaking when she points it at him to blast him across the hall, but nothing happens. Sarrum seems to have armed himself with protective spells, as well; he bounds towards Morgana, surprisingly quick for his age and built.

“Still unable to fight me, I see,” he sneers, and Gwen can see the terror in Morgana's face, the memories that must be coming to the surface.

She realises, then, how much it must have cost her to even come near this man. How much protecting Gwen must matter for her to do it anyway.

“Morgana!” she calls and throws the sword in her hand; Morgana catches it out of reflex more of anything else, but she parries Sarrum's blow easily.

“I am a High Priestess,” she snarls, going in to attack. “Your mortal blade can't kill me.”

Sarrum's face is stony as he blocks her, his movements getting slower, more desperate. Morgana is the better sword fighter, but her fear is still holding her back.

Gwen doesn't think about it. She rushes across the hall, grabs a stray piece of wood from the door Morgana splintered upon arriving, and hits Sarrum over the head. It doesn't knock him out, but it allows Morgana to come close enough for the killing blow.

He sinks down on the sword before Morgana rips it out of his chest, breathing heavily.

Gwen allows herself a victorious smile that falters when she sees the dagger stuck in Morgana's side.

“Poison – ” Morgana rasps. “The bastard – what I get for trying to be brave – ”

She stumbles a few paces; Gwen is there to catch her. Frantically, she tries to remember the times she helped Gaius with tending to injuries, comes up with Kara's arrow wound. The source of Gedwenn isn't exactly an option, but there's a sorcerer here who might be even more powerful than that.

Mind made up, she pulls the dagger out, lest it poison Morgana further, cuts a few strips off her heavy silk dress (and who cares about that unwearable thing, anyway) and dresses the wound as best she can. She pulls Morgana's arm over her shoulder to support her weight, and carefully steers them back to the throne room. Morgana's breath is shallow as she presses down on her wound; Gwen covers her fingers with her own hand, like she's trying to stop Morgana's life from seeping out.

She pushes the door open, almost stumbling into Arthur's back, and stops short.

The floor of the throne room is littered with bodies – Sarrum's men, unconscious or dead, she can't tell. Arthur's knights are only now starting to move, as if awakening from a long dream. Dust hangs in the air, slowly clearing and settling on broken chairs and crumbled pillars. The windows are shattered into a million pieces; a wide crack runs through the Round Table, the signed treaty forgotten on the ground.

And in the midst of it, Merlin.

Merlin, who turns around, gold fading from his cold eyes. Merlin, who walks forward until he's right in front of Arthur, and sinks to his knees. Merlin, whose face is defiant, hard, unreadable, but whose posture speaks of complete submission. Merlin, who slowly lowers his head, awaiting judgment from his king.

Gwen has never seen anything like it.

For an infinite moment, Arthur doesn't move; then he reaches down and roughly pulls his servant up by his shirt. His hands are cupping Merlin's neck, his face, like he doesn't know what to do with them, and Merlin's expression softens into something much more human.

His face drops completely, though, when he finally spots Gwen and Morgana over Arthur's shoulder.

“Is she – ” he rasps, rushing to Morgana's side, who hisses but doesn't move away. Gwen can tell she's mere moments from passing out.

“Poison,” she says, curtly. “Sarrum had a surprise up his sleeve.”

“Where is he?” Arthur says.

Morgana's head snaps up then, glaring right at Arthur.

“Dead,” she says, “and just so we're clear, I didn't do it for you.”

Then she slips into unconsciousness. Gwen catches her and holds her close; Morgana's faint but regular breath on the side of her neck is just enough to stop her from panicking.

“You can heal her, can't you?” she asks Merlin, voice even sharper than she intended. She will not take no for an answer.

And sure enough, Merlin nods firmly, although now that the murderous look has gone out of his eyes, he looks a bit pale. “I will. But we have to bring her to Gaius' quarters – ”

Without a moment's hesitation, Arthur heaves Morgana into his arms and starts walking, Merlin and Gwen behind him.

 

 

 

Merlin makes good on his promise and stays up all night to brew and administer the antidote. Gwen is under no illusion that she'll be able to sleep, and stays at Morgana's bedside until her friend's breath evens out into a deep, peaceful slumber. She stays the day after that, as well, and the night too, until Gaius stops by with some food and water and tries to convince her to go rest for a while.

“I will rest,” Gwen says, resolutely, “when she has woken. Not a moment sooner.”

Gaius looks at her with his eyebrow raised, but doesn't press further.

Two days have passed now, and Gwen is dozing with her head on the mattress and Morgana's hand in hers, when there's a knock at the door and Arthur comes in.

“I hope I didn't wake you.”

Gwen sits up straight and shakes her head. “I'll probably sleep for a full day when all of this is over, but I'm fine for now.”

He nods towards Morgana, whose hand Gwen is still holding. “How is she?”

“Still asleep, but breathing normally. Merlin says the poison is out of her system, and the wound heals like it should.” She looks down at Morgana's relaxed face, her dark lashes and her chapped lips, and feels that tenderness blooming in her chest again. “She'll be better soon.”

Arthur nods absently, pulling a chair over and sitting down. “That's … good to hear.”

“She protected me from Sarrum, Arthur.” Morgana's chest is rising and falling slowly, in the same rhythm as Gwen's. “She saved me. They saved us.”

Arthur doesn't reply, but she knows he agrees.

“You look different,” he says instead. “Happy.”

Gwen forces herself to look away from Morgana and at her husband, instead. She hasn't been looking forward to this conversation, but she needs to have it. She _wants_ to have it.

“I am happy.”

“Happier than I've seen you in a while, at least.”

She frowns at him. “None of this is your fault, Arthur. You know that.”

“Do I? As your husband, shouldn't your happiness be my duty?”

“I'm not your _duty_ , or anything like it,” she says forcefully. “And I'm still happy to be your queen. But – ” She stops, collects herself with a deep breath. “I don't think that I can be your wife anymore.”

Now that the words are out there, Gwen finds herself incredibly, incredibly relieved.

“Is this to do with Morgana?” Arthur asks.

She doesn't really know how to answer that, but her silence is telling enough.

Arthur sighs deeply and runs a hand over his face. “I think – I may understand,” he admits. “Things have changed. For both of us.”

Gwen raises an eyebrow. “You're taking this rather well.”

“Seems that I have learnt something from you, after all.” He smiles at her, then, with just the smallest amount of heartbreak; it's the easiest thing in the world to smile back.

“I'm sorry you didn't get to marry for love,” Gwen says, meaning it.

“No, I did. I loved you, Guinevere. I still do.”

“And I you.”

Arthur sighs again, but this time it's far less wistful and far more exaggerated. “Well. At least I'm not losing _Camelot_ to Morgana. That would have been far worse.”

Gwen swats at his arm with mock outrage. “I'll have you know that I'm worth much, much more than Camelot.”

Morgana, with her absolutely perfect timing, chooses this very moment to stir. Her body shifts around on the bed, and here eyes flutter open, peering right into Gwen's.

“Ah, wonderful,” she mumbles, touching Gwen's cheek, a smirk already playing on her lips. “I must have died and gone to the best afterlife possible.”

Gwen rolls her eyes but can't help the blush spreading on her face. “Barely woken up, and already sweet-talking. I should just tell Merlin to put you back to sleep.”

Morgana tenses a little bit at the mention of Merlin. “Did he – ”

“He healed you,” Gwen says quickly. “Was very diligent about it, too.”

The witch considers this, a small, pensive frown on her features. “Then it seems he has repaid a debt.”

Gwen smiles at her and squeezes her hand; Morgana squeezes back weakly before she registers the other person in the room.

“Arthur,” she says. There's a bit of disdain in her voice, but mostly, she sounds very, very tired.

“Morgana,” Arthur replies in much the same way.

They stare at each other for a while, until some sort of strange Pendragon understanding passes between them. Morgana turns back to Gwen.

“Could you give us a moment?” she says. “I believe we have a few things to talk about.”

Arthur huffs. “And that may just be the biggest understatement of your life.”

“Are you sure it shouldn't wait until … ?” Gwen asks, trailing off.

Morgana shakes her head. “It will be fine,” she promises.

And maybe, Gwen thinks while closing the door to Gaius' quarters behind her, maybe she's right. Maybe it will, for once, be fine.

 

 

 

A week or so later, Gwen is knocking at another door, this time to her own quarters. Morgana has been back on her feet and out of the castle for a few days, predictably; for all of her past treasonous acts it would have been impossible for her to stay, and Gwen doubts she would have wanted that anyway. Still, Arthur's been incredibly lenient, honouring her efforts in warning and then defending Camelot against the threat of Sarrum by essentially wiping her slate clean.

When, right upon her departure, he told her that he would soon lift the ban on magic in Camelot, Gwen knew Morgana had done her very best to hold back tears. She held Gwen very tightly after that, kissing her like the future had finally stopped looking so bleak.

A hushed, but distinct “Enter!” pulls her out of this particular memory.

Quietly, she lets herself in. Arthur isn't immediately visible; she spots him sitting on the furs in front of the fireplace. He presses a finger to his lips, and as she approaches, she can see why – Merlin is sleeping next to him, head pillowed on Arthur's thigh. Arthur gestures her closer with a hand, the other one slowly carding through his friend's hair.

“Hasn't slept in days, the idiot,” he murmurs. “Keeps insisting on repairing the entire castle with magic. I'd send him to his quarters but he'd just go right back to working himself to the bone.”

Gwen makes herself comfortable on the furs next to him. “I take it your discussion was fruitful, then?”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “Unbearably long, more like. There was so much to talk about. There still is, obviously, but – I think I have a better picture now, of what he's done.” He looks down at Merlin, deep in thought. “Of what I made him do. He's risked his life for me, Gwen. He's killed for me. I wonder what I did to make him like this.”

“You've risked your life for him, too,” Gwen remarks. “Killed for him. Is it really that different?”

Arthur doesn't reply, obviously in a very pensive mood tonight; Gwen is happy to leave him with his thoughts and just enjoy the fire's warmth.

“How did you do it?” he asks after a while.

“What?”

“Morgana. All of … that.”

Ah. _That._ “I took a leaf out of your book.” She smiles slyly. “Which is to say, I was unbearably stubborn.”

Arthur laughs soundlessly. “Right. And that's all it took?”

It's not, but Gwen still doesn't know how to explain it. “We managed to meet halfway.”

Her king nods slowly. “You know … When all of the new laws have passed – when the people have gotten used to them, and the dust has settled – I'm not saying that's going to be very soon, because as you said, it's going to take a while, but … well.” He clears his throat. “Suppose the queen of Camelot would like to travel her lands for a bit – see how her subjects are doing – and if she were to do that on horseback, or maybe on a dragon, possibly in company of an old friend – I think the king wouldn't find any fault with that.”

Gwen quirks an eyebrow to cover up the hope rising within her. “You think?”

“In fact,” Arthur continues, “I'm fairly sure the king would like for his queen to be happy. In whichever way she can.”

He's looking at her now, completely earnest. It stirs something within Gwen, something she'd feared was lost between them.

Friendship.

She takes his free hand and threads their fingers together. “I think that the queen would be very grateful for that. And she would tell her king that she, too, would like for him to be happy.”

 

 

 

 

 

E P I L O G U E

 

 

 

“I hope you aren't forgetting anything,” Morgana says while tying Gwen's bag onto Aithusa's back.

Gwen smiles at her and runs a hand over her friend's hair. “I think I have everything I need.”

Morgana raises her eyebrows, unimpressed, but she can't quite hide her own grin. “And you have the gall to call _me_ a sweet-talker?”

Gwen's smile just widens; it simply seems impossible to not to let her good mood show today. She pats Aithusa's flank, smoothes down her tunic and her warm overcoat, then heads over to the cluster of knights in the courtyard.

“Are you coming, Mordred?”

“Right along, your Highness,” Mordred says, ducking away from Percival's attempt to ruffle his hair. He's volunteered to escort them into the woods; Gwen fully intends to make good on her promise of reintroducing him to Kara.

Elyan hugs her goodbye, Percival bows a bit awkwardly, Leon kisses her hand, and Gwaine attempts to, but she swats him away at the last moment like she always does. She takes a moment to admire Merlin's new robes as Camelot's official Court Sorcerer; they're knee-length and of a deep blue, with gold embroidery on the hem. Arthur must have picked them out, because she certainly didn't; she'll have to tease him about it some other time. She kisses Merlin on the cheek and embraces Arthur tightly.

“Take care of each other while I'm gone, all of you,” she says. “And don't get into trouble.”

“I would never,” Merlin says, which earns him a hearty snort from Gwaine and a shove at the shoulder from Arthur (that comes out a lot softer than he probably meant to).

“I'll look out for him,” Arthur says, long-suffering, but clearly meaning it.

Gwen nods. “I know you will.”

With a last wave at all of them, she mounts Aithusa easily, Morgana in front of her, Mordred in the back. Gwen wraps her arms around Morgana's waist, and, feeling bold, presses a kiss to her shoulder. Morgana twists her head around to grin at her; her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes sparkle like there's a storm rising behind them.

“Ready?” she whispers.

Gwen smiles back. “Let's go.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
